Finding Sam
by sayrae3times
Summary: Great. His brother would never let him live this one down, getting himself kidnapped, by humans nonetheless, not even a year after he’s been back in action. Great. Fan-freaking-tastic. Set Season 1, sometime after Skin.
1. That Ain't Him

_A/N: Disclaimer - __Supernatural__ and its characters are a copyright of Eric Kripke and Warner Bros. And my own personal note, I recently read Tom DeHaven's "It's Superman" and I was fascinated with his writing style, so I decided to challenge myself and give it a try. For this reason, I have to admit I'm nervous about posting. It's definitely been challenging writing in such an unfamiliar style, so I hope it works. Expect some minor language throughout chapters. I'm not one for cursing myself, but when you back a Winchester in a corner, he's going to open his mouth. Don't worry, no f-bombs will EVER be dropped!_

_Special thanks to my bestest friend in the whole wide world, Jessica, for the beta and the encouragement._

**

* * *

Finding Sam**

_Summary: Great. His brother would never let him live this one down, getting himself kidnapped, by humans nonetheless, not even a year after he's been back in action. Great. Fan-freaking-tastic._

* * *

Dean knocks once before kicking the door in.

Foz is already on his feet next to the ratty sofa. He's bleary eyed, greasy brown curls askew, and there's a mark on his face from his ear to the cleft of his chin. So he'd been asleep. Good.

Dean is across the room in just a few strides and Foz is _off_ his feet in under a minute, Dean's fists clenching tight at the collar of his stained Hawaiian shirt. The impact of head and body slamming against the far wall is hard, but calculated enough to only be a _little_ painful; Dean pulls back before it can do any damage. It makes the impression Dean's going for and now Foz has gotten a good look at his visitor. The terrified expression on the mousy little man's face is a sure sign of that.

Behind him, Dean hears footsteps. He doesn't look away from his quarry, just pins him with steel eyes and grip and lets him sweat. The footsteps cross the threshold of the shattered door and take position behind him. He doesn't worry about to whom they belong. They're familiar and it's comforting knowing there's someone at his back, but he scowls when he remembers that those footsteps don't belong to the right person.

Foz sees the scowl and winces. Jim's hand on Dean's shoulder is well timed, the classic hold-me-back tactic. It's not restraining in the least, purely for show, but it's enough for Foz to get the picture that there's very little standing between his grubby little self and a very painful situation.

_That_ thought makes Dean smile, and when Dean smiles, his quarry pales. "Foz," Dean tilts his head in way of greeting.

"Dean!" Foz chokes. Foz hasn't changed much since the last time Dean's seen him, and Dean recognizes the used car-salesmen smile. "Dean-o, my buddy! My man! How's it…?"

Foz's attempt at pleasantries are interrupted by the force of his dangling body being yanked away from the wall and smacked right back into it. This time the hand on Dean's shoulder is just a _bit_ restraining.

"Easy." Jim's voice is pitched low, placating, but it carries authority nonetheless.

Regrettably, Dean's too angry for easy. He bears his teeth and the smile melts from Foz's face. "Where's Vallis?" Dean demands.

"Vallis?" Foz tries for nonchalance, but it's a pathetic display, especially with that obvious quiver in his voice. "Vallis? Why you lookin' for 'V?"

Dean's slitted eyes are hard, angry, and Foz can't seem to hold his gaze. Dean doesn't blame him. Intimidation isn't a problem at the moment; he's so tense he can practically feel the cords standing out on his face and neck and he's so furious that his head feels swollen and thick.

"That's my business, don't you think?" Dean suggests lightly, relaxing his grip just a little. He doesn't want Foz to have a heart attack before he has the chance to answer his questions. Or wet his pants for that matter. Judging by the little weasel's color, Dean wouldn't put it past him. "Now come on Foz, where's your boss?"

Foz takes advantage of the slack in Dean's grip, pulling himself together enough to flash him an amiable smirk that is _it's no big deal _and_ this is all a big misunderstanding _and_ you're nuts _all rolled into one. "Boss? Where you been Winchester? 'V ain't been my boss since you sent him to the box."

"Box?" Dean snorts disdainfully. "I'm not in the mood for your cute little gang lingo, Foz. Where is he?"

"I got outta that business…"

Goddamn but he's annoying, and Dean has a lot of pent-up frustration to vent. He slams Foz against the wall yet again, this time hard enough to rattle his teeth, and shifts his voice from annoyed to dangerous-and-annoyed. "Don't mess with me Foz! Where's Vallis?"

Foz is close to panicking now, throwing his hands up and whimpering. "Really, really, Winchester! I don't know! Really!"

"I think he's telling the truth, Dean." Jim's voice is smooth, knowing. It brings Dean back to reality. He knows it was meant to.

"Fine," he growls, turning back to Foz, "Then where can I find someone who does know?"

Foz nods, eager to be helpful now that he thinks there's a chance Dean won't kill him after the interrogation. "Maggi. Maggi Delatour. Maggi'd know. Rumor has it she waited for him. Went to see him every day inside, ya know?"

Dean considers this. It's possible; he remembers Maggi.

Of course, there's also the possibility that the little prick is lying. After all, Foz is as good as dead if Vallis finds out he opened his mouth. He _could be_ lying, but Dean really doesn't think so. He doesn't think Foz has the spine to lie to his face right now.

"And where do I find Maggi?"

"Last I knew she had an apartment. Downtown - Fifth and Polk. Top floor."

"Number?"

Foz shrugs his shoulders and darts a nervous glance around the room. "I don't remember no number."

Dean doesn't think, he just drops Foz, keeping his left hand fisted in his shirt and throws a punch with his right that smashes into the wall inches from Foz's face. The weak plaster crumbles, leaving a softball-size hole. "Number?"

"Holy crap, Winchester! Room 415!"

"You lyin' to me?"

"No! Room 415, I swear!"

It's all the information he needs and now that he's got it, Foz is no longer important. Dean drops him, the little toad, and turns to leave.

From out in the hall he can hear his partner curtly apologize for the mess.

Dean blocks it out, breathes through his anger, fighting to control it, to calm himself down. Everything is surreal, out of his control, standing there in the middle of a filthy hallway in an even filthier New Orleans apartment complex where no one has even bothered to come to their doors to see what all the commotion is about. Dean would be surprised if anybody even called the police.

"Relax, Dean." It isn't an order, like it would have been had it have been coming from his father, but Jim is chiding him in his own proper, genteel sort of way. Unlike John Winchester, Pastor Jim Murphy had accepted the fact that Dean is a grown man, as capable and as dangerous as any hunter. He won't take control and bark orders at him, but as the more experienced and…less attached…of the two, Jim isn't going to let Dean lose his focus.

Dean's head is pounding and his neck is so taut that it burns, but he manages a nod.

Pacified, Jim makes for the elevator. "Let's get to the car."

They don't speak on the way down, or on their way through the tiny parking lot, but Jim finally decides there's been enough silence when he's seated across from Dean in the Impala. "Was that really necessary?" he asks, the barest hint of amusement in his voice.

Dean deflates, but can't bring himself to smile. "Completely. Foz is a weasel; he'd sell his own mother if the price was right, and lie to me if he thought it'd save his ass."

"And you don't think he lied?"

"I think he's too scared I'll kick his ass if I catch him lying."

"Now I wonder why he'd think that."

_That_ brings a smile to Dean's face, but just as quickly as it surfaces, he pulls it back. It feels too twisted and too out of place and too _wrong_ to be smiling while…

"You gonna be all right?" _Can you keep it together? _Jim doesn't mince words, but there's concern lacing his tone. He knows Dean, has known both of them since Sam was in diapers, and he knows Dean's defenses are the only things that are keeping him upright.

Dean doesn't answer. He works at breathing.

He'll have to deal with his fears eventually, and for one vital purpose. If Sam is…

He hits the steering wheel, open palmed, and pushes against that thought with a ferocity he's convinced even his dad would appreciate.

Jim doesn't say a word, just waits for the younger man to vent his frustration as Dean shifts restlessly in his seat and tries again.

He has to deal with it. If Sam is…

No.

If Sam is dea…

_Damn it!_ This time it's the dashboard with both hands and Dean doesn't feel a thing.

He can't even think it. He won't allow himself to think it. Not the who, or the how or the why - none of it.

When the moment of fury passes, Dean glances up at his old friend. He knows Jim won't press, but he also knows the old man isn't about to let it slide. So he waits for Dean to come around on his own. It only takes a moment.

Dean forces his trademark smirk. "You counsel any head-cases like me back home, Pastor?"

"Several, actually," Jim retorts, his eyes going distant for moment. Pensive. Then he rubs his hand over his face. "You remind me of your daddy sometimes, you know that? Answering the question without answering the question at all."

Dean snorts. _Dad._ He doesn't even want to go there.

What he wants is to find his brother.

Dean starts the car. The purr of the engine isn't comforting.

* * *

Instinct keeps his eyes shut, not wanting to alert his captors that he's awake before he can assess his situation and figure out just what had happened.

He remembers researching their latest hunt_ – a haunting in St. Tammany Parish? – _in their motel room when he decided to get a soda. Dean had gone, taken the car, leaving the parking lot deserted. No – not deserted. An SUV had been parked near the Lobby. He'd barely taken notice of it as he stood in front of the soda machine, quarters in hand.

Then something charged up behind him.

He remembers only half turning before something hard slammed into him and pain exploded at his temple. There was a flash of red and the metallic clatter of whatever it was that had just pummeled him rolling on the ground a few feet away – _fire extinguisher? Something hit him with a fire extinguisher? – _and Sam hit the pavement.

Hands were on him then; he couldn't tell how many. His arms were tugged behind his back, his wrists crossed. Then the hands left and a foot lashed out in a kick that rolled him over.

They had been talking._ What had they said?_

Sam forces himself to focus, struggling to pull clarity from his confused and jumbled thoughts.

He remembers his cheek against the pavement, something warm trickling into his eye, and then a voice, gruff and serious and aged and…human?_ "I thought there were two of 'em."_

"_There's 'sposed to be." _Another voice, younger, the hint of panic unmistakable. Also human. Then a string of curses, followed by, _"…he's not here."_

"_Go check the room."_

Legs scampering away, distant and blurred through the ache in his skull. Then, _"…boss is gonna be pissed."_

"_We got one of 'em. Let's get outta here."_

It was the last thing he remembered before blacking out completely.

Great. His brother would never let him live this one down, getting himself kidnapped, by humans nonetheless, not even a year after he's been back in action. Great. Fan-freaking-tastic.

Finally opening his eyes to slits, Sam peers up furtively, forcing himself to take stock. No broken bones, legs free, hands tied and – _huh _– no gag. The bound hands most likely won't be a problem, but the absence of a gag isn't exactly encouraging. It likely means that wherever he is, his captors aren't worried about anyone hearing him call for help.

Concentrating on his available senses, the first thing that registers is the noise. A quiet rumble, like the sounds of cheering and hollering, muffled by distance, meets his ears. It reminds him of the time he went with Jess's family to a San Diego Chargers game, the sound of the stadium from where they were tailgating outside.

The second thing is that he isn't in a hallway. The two men who had jumped him in the parking lot say nothing as they continue to haul him through a maze of objects he only dimly recognizes as stacked crates and wooden pallets. Grease stained windows and stark metal shelves, harboring boxes of every size and shape line the walls and a high, unfinished ceiling matches the concrete floor. A warehouse?

Obviously, he's been out for some time. Night has fallen outside, the stars shimmering through dirty windows. Not a good sign there either. Windows mean that wherever he's been taken, it's far enough away from civilization that his kidnappers are not only unconcerned with him calling for help, but even less concerned with anyone seeing inside.

Sam blinks blurrily, wracking his still-muddled brain for an answer as to where he might be. New Orleans isn't overly large, but within the city limits there isn't enough wide-open space to accommodate such isolation. Perhaps he hasn't been taken far at all. Perhaps he's still in the country, far away from busy roads and the prying eyes of neighbors. Or maybe he's just been taken to one of the shadier parts of town, where people know enough to mind their own business.

Either way, Dean's going to have a hard time tracking him down. Sam didn't exactly leave a note in his forced retreat, and his brother hadn't been due back to their room with dinner for another hour or so. And who was to say Dean would even know he was gone? Unless his kidnappers ransacked the room, Sam had already been outside when he was hijacked, his laptop still on and the door shut inconspicuously behind him. Dean could come back to an empty room and assume Sam had gone for a walk to clear his head. They hadn't exactly been the most forthcoming with each other as of late.

Which means Sam is more or less on his own.

Above him the men grunt in exertion as they arrive at their destination and deposit Sam in a rickety metal chair.

"I don't like this." There's no mistaking the anxiety infused in the young voice. It – _He_ – sounded like a kid compared the gruff baritone of his other captor.

"Relax, kid," Gruff says. "It's just a job. You'll get used to it."

"But…"

"Shut your trap already and go get 'V." The order is grumbled and Sam eases his eyes open to see the younger of his two captors nod uneasily and scamper off.

The next thing he knows, his chin is being lifted -_ examined? _- and a new voice grouses, "That ain't him." Male voice, deep, and clearly the boss for all the authority even those three little words carry.

Sam's confusion deepens. So they nabbed him on accident? Thought he was someone else?

He tries to open his eyes, to see the owner of this new voice, but all he can see are shapes. Vague and dark, there are three, no, maybe five; he can't be certain.

"What do you mean, it ain't him?" Gruff demands. "He was at the motel. And he was in the same room."

Boss must have stood because Sam's chin is dropped, his lead lolling limply on his chest. The motion makes his head reel and he sags, dizzy, back against the cold metal. He tries to focus, to stay awake, but his head is throbbing and every limb feels weighted and…

He jerks awake, weak and shaken. He couldn't have been out for more than a few minutes because he's still in the chair and the men are still standing in front of him.

"…told you there'd be two of 'em…amn it!"

"…other one wasn't there..."

"…better not be lyin' to me…Kid?"

Now the kid speaks, his voice wobbling almost comically, "He was the only one there, 'V, honest. I checked the room myself, inside and out."

Sam logs that away as the first piece of good news since he's been taken. If they'd checked the room then it was possible that they'd left something behind. It didn't matter if they were professionals - even the smallest of clues would make his disappearance known to his brother. If there was a hint, even the tiniest difference in the state of their motel room, Dean would know. Of that Sam is certain.

"…about the car?"

"…black Chevy…not there..."

_The Impala?_ he wonders, but his head is swimming and suddenly he's having a hard time remembering why that's important.

Someone curses, probably Boss, but Sam is already fading again. The voices are starting to blend together and it's too much for his already floundering consciousness to follow. He fights against it, knows he needs to stay awake and gather as much information as possible from his kidnappers, but he's just so tired…


	2. A Head Full of Confusion

_A/N: Heartfelt thanks to supernatfem76, Katharra, Dali2theLlamasquared, and MdarKspIrIt for taking the time to leave me a review. I was nervous and knowing there was somebody out there who was interested kept me going. Thanks!_

* * *

Jim's insisting that Dean tell him what happened.

Dean's been trying to avoid this conversation, not wanting to talk or even think about it again, but Jim's getting impatient and, like it or not, the old man's right; he's not likely to be any help to Dean or Sam if he doesn't know what's going on.

"From the beginning," the Pastor urges, so Dean takes a deep breath and begins.

Sam isn't answering his phone. Dean's ticked because he always answers his phone, and even when he doesn't answer it, he calls right back.

To a normal person, a missed phone call would be a mild irritation - an inconvience. In their line of work, a missed phone call could have dire consequences. The Winchesters had more enemies than they could count – a missed call could be a loved one in trouble, a cry for help from a victim, another hunter in need, a lead on a case. Hell, it could even be Dad.

Their lives are just too dangerous for missed phone calls, and Dean's counting how many ways he can kick his brother's ass when he sees the sign for Deborah's Corner Inn down the block.

The little motel isn't exactly the cream of the crop for a New Orleans suburb, but being so far outside the city limits and across the Causeway has its perks. The fact that it's clean, comfortable and dirt cheap more than make up for the fact that they have to drive forty-five minutes and over twenty five miles of water just to get dinner.

Dean's thinking about Sam, how he insisted on staying in the room to finish their research, and Dean hadn't felt the need to argue. His brother's been quiet since the skinwalker incident; not the angry, bottled-up Sam he's grown used to over the miles. This Sam listens to Dean talk, nods when necessary, provides the usual one-word answers to any questions thrown his way, but otherwise remains distant.

It isn't unlike Sam - the moodiness, the _brooding_. But what _is_ unlike Sam is not answering his phone, and Dean knows there's something wrong the minute he pulls into the parking lot.

Maybe it's his hunter's perception, or maybe he's channeling his inner Winchester-worse-case-scenario, but Dean takes in the entire lot, his trained eyes noting _everything._

There's a fire extinguisher lying haphazardly by the soda machine, several feet away from a dark oil stain that can't be an oil stain because there's no way a car is fitting in that small of a space. The door to their room is ajar – _Sam knows better than to leave it open _– and there's a boot-shaped scuffmark in the paint that wasn't there before.

Dean doesn't even bother pulling into a parking spot. The car's barely in Park when he thrusts open the door and jumps onto the pavement, all but tearing inside.

Panic kills. His dad taught him that, taught him that panic dominates and replaces clear thinking, thereby hindering a man's ability to act quickly and efficiently. He knows not to panic, knows how and why he should fight it back when it threatens to consume him, but the room is empty and Sam's phone is on the nightstand and world is just so damn _silent_ all of a sudden.

The room's no more of a mess than usual, which really doesn't make sense. The laptop is still out, sitting open on the table, a handful of wadded receipts and change and pocket lint on the nightstand. Their duffle bags are still against the wall and the TV is still on, but it's evident _someone's_ been there; the bathroom and closet doors are open, the shower curtain is pulled back, cabinets exposed, the bed skirt lifted. Someone was searching for something.

And Sam is gone.

Dean remembers the misplaced oil stain and retreats outside. It's not a far walk; they're only a handful of doors down from the soda machine.

The first thing he sees is the fire extinguisher lying next to the stairs. It's scuffed at the bottom and there's a scrape in the pavement that tells him where it was dropped before rolling to its current location.

The soda machine is one of the older models; the giant square box kind that, back in the day, only charged fifty cents and you could never get it to take your dollar bill if the corners were bent. The light next to the change slot is red and there's a quarter on the ground in front of it.

He's not sure at first why he does it, but he picks the quarter up and drops it in the coin slot. The appliance grumbles and the little red light turns to green. He doesn't even look at the selection, just presses the first button he sees.

A root beer tumbles out but Dean's already moving. He doesn't like the scuffed up fire extinguisher and he doesn't like the unfinished soda transaction. He's connecting the dots as he bends to inspect the oil.

It's not oil.

It's dark and coagulated and…and red.

His legs give and oxygen vanishes and he's on his knees before he can speak the conclusion his mind's already come to.

Someone is roaring, "Sammy!" but it's not him because he can't breathe through the suffocating fear that drives him to heave to his feet and charge toward the room.

"Sammy?" There's that voice again, and this time he notes that his lips are moving, but it just doesn't sound like his voice. It's too desperate, too choked.

Standing in the middle of the room isn't helping. He whirls, grabbing Sam's cell from the nightstand, and dials the first number that comes to his mind.

Dad.

It doesn't even ring. His father's voicemail has never been more infuriating.

Dean's fist makes several considerable dents in the wall, and it isn't the first time he finds himself wishing it's John Winchester's jaw in his line of fire.

Ignoring his now throbbing hand, Dean drops onto the bed. Plaster and blood line his knuckles and for a fleeting moment he thinks about what the maid will say when she sees the new room décor.

His mind is whirling and there's no time to rest, but he's got to stop and think. He should call the cops, get Sam's picture on every police station wall and his description on every badge's tongue. He should get them to come here, look into this mess, hell - take _fingerprints_.

But cops don't deal with the things he and his brother deal with. And thanks to a friggin' skinwalker, Dean's supposed to be a dead man. He can call the cops, play the anonymous card, but then what? Get another hotel room? Hide in a friggin' hole until a bunch of under-trained amateurs find Sam? None of his aliases will hold up in a background check and Dean is _so_ not going to sit down and twiddle his thumbs while somebody else looks for his brother.

No, the police will just get in his way. They won't even know what to look for. He's got to call someone he knows. Someone he can trust.

Sam's phone is cold against his ear.

"_Hello."_

"Jim? It's Dean."

"_Dean?"_

The voice is familiar and to hear it is a relief so physical it's almost painful, but Dean's mouth feels dry, stuffed with cotton, and his words catch in his throat. Where to even begin? "I'm sorry. I just…I can't find dad and I didn't know who else to call…"

Jim tells him to slow down, asks him what's wrong. His answer tumbles out in a flurry of information and curses. He's seething by the end of the conversation, but Jim is flying in tonight and if Dean hurries he can get out of there before Miss Deborah herself notices something's fishy and gets the cops involved.

"…_New Orleans? …Isn't that where you and your daddy…?"_

Holy…

The realization hits him like a punch to the gut and he can't _believe_ he missed it.

There was no EMF, no sulfur, yet the door had physically been kicked down and every place where a full-grown man would be capable of hiding was exposed.

They were looking for someone. For Dean.

They were looking for Dean and they took Sam.

He remembers later that the curses to follow were probably a bit inappropriate to say in front of a clergyman.

Jim says its all right, tells Dean he should calm down, but Dean's freaked and it's easy to say what someone should do when they're no you.

Then Jim reiterates he's not far and he'll catch the first flight out. Jim disconnects, Dean doesn't even say goodbye, and several long minutes pass before he lowers the phone. His hand is still shaking and his ear hurts from the pressure.

Anxious and impatient, he finally stands. The room is suffocating, getting smaller, and he has to move, has to_ get out_. His keys are in his hand and he's back in his car before Jim has the opportunity to call back with his flight information.

Later, Dean drives to the airport with the windows up so that no one will hear his shouts. And if the lady in the Escort next to him sees him punching the steering wheel, so be it. He's got to get his anger out now, so that when he picks up the Pastor he'll be cool, professional, and they can figure out how to find Sam together.

It's impotent rage, he knows, and to be honest, his fury even scares himself, but more worrisome is that he doesn't care in the least. Somebody has taken Sam, and when he finds them, Dean's rage will be the least of their problems.

* * *

Pain brings him to as something sharp stings his face.

Sam groans. The blow does it's work, violently jarring him to wakefulness. He jerks upright, his first instinct to lash out, to fight back, before someone slaps him hard enough to knock him back down again, dizzy, out of breath, and almost nauseated with pain.

"Hey!" Another slap, this one wrenching his head to the side. "You with us?"

Sam grits his teeth through the pain and waits for the room to complete its impromptu loop-the-loop before – slowly - turning his head back. No good. Vertigo's a bitch, even the tiniest movements make his head pound agonizingly and, despite himself, he lets out a pained gasp.

A large, unfamiliar hand grasps his shoulder and gives a brief squeeze. "Easy does it, kid. We just wanna talk."

_Talk?_

His vision is blurry, black at the edges, but he can vaguely make out the figure looming over him. At least six foot tall, long limbed, broad shouldered, a stance he doesn't recognize…

"Who are you?" he slurs. And, just because he's sure he won't get an answer, "What do you want with me?"

"Just full of questions tonight, aren't you _Sam_."

The name rolls casually off his tongue, buddy-to-buddy like.

His name.

_Oh Crap. _They know his name.

"Nice of you to finally join us. How's your brother?"

It takes a second for the question to sink in. _Brother?_ How the heck do they know he has a brother? And how do they know who he is? He's sure he has never seen any of them before, not that his vision is clear enough yet to get the details, but even their voices aren't familiar. He wants to ask again, to demand who they are, what they want, but the way the speaker said the word _brother_ immediately sets Sam's hackles rising. It's a small detail, something he probably shouldn't even have noticed, but Sam does and his confusion skyrockets. "What?"

"Your brother, Winchester, where is he?"

There it is. The _brother_, again. Something in his tone, the way he says it, sets off warning bells in the back of his mind and Sam's unease intensifies.

Whatever this is, it isn't about him, he realizes.

_Dean._

His brother.

His brother Dean and _Oh god_…It's about Dean.

There's nothing like a little panic to clear up a head full of confusion.

They're after his brother.

The snippets of conversation he'd heard earlier suddenly make a whole lot more sense and for Sam, some of the pieces fall into place. He hadn't been randomly abducted. They had known about them; had known exactly where he and Dean were and when to come after them. It had just been chance that his brother had not been there when they struck.

Right then, he decides that he doesn't have a brother. And Sam Winchester definitely isn't his name.

"The name's Vallis," the speaker continues. "Your brother and me, we go way back. Met up 'bout four-five years ago. Lost contact, ya know? Been lookin' for him ever since."

Sam swallows, his throat suddenly tight. _That_ doesn't sound good. The words were innocent enough, but innocent would have been a phone call or a polite knock on their motel door - _Hey, have you seen your brother?_ After having been knocked out and dragged to god-knows-where, innocent just doesn't cover it.

Someone _looking_ for Dean that way can't be a good thing, and four years is a very long time to hold a grudge. There's no telling what Dean could have done to tick these people off. It wasn't like their family won popularity contests wherever they went. Showing up in town right as trouble's starting and then leaving when it's over, people tend to make their own connections. Whatever the cause, Sam hadn't been around to witness it. Four years ago he'd been sitting in class at Stanford, and Dean had been on the road hunting on and off with dad.

Unfortunately, if Dean had deemed it unnecessary to mention, it probably meant it was serious enough for him to want to keep secret from his brother. Sam can't imagine people gunning for his family to be such a small affair that he simply _forgot_ to mention it.

Vallis is still talking, pacing the room and addressing Sam as if he were his company, not his captive. It would have been amusing, that is, if Sam hadn't been the one tied to a chair.

"I was hopin' you could help me find him. You know where he is?"

For a moment, Sam considers smarting off, but that would probably be a dead give-away that he shares blood with the man they're after. So he puts on his best confused-face and settles for playing dumb. "Excuse me?"

"Your brother, Winchester. Where is he?"

Sam blanks his face, betraying no signs of surprise or recognition. He's determined to reveal nothing. Four years ago he'd been at Stanford, so he's banking on that these guys have never seen him before. "Buddy, I have no idea what you're talking about."

Without warning, Vallis's fist comes out of nowhere, slamming Sam in the jaw. Sam reels in surprise, chair tipping slightly from the impact. Blood spills from his lip, decorating his already ruined and sweat-soaked shirt.

"I'm sorry, that wasn't the answer I was looking for," Vallis says pleasantly.

"Answer the question. Please."

"I did! I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

Another punch, and now his nose matches his lip.

"I don't even have a brother!" It's a slur because half his face now feels numb.

Eyes, cold and calculating, fix him with a heavy stare. Sam braces himself for another punch, but it never comes. Instead, Vallis turns his chin and orders over his shoulder, "Stand him up."

Sam is pulled to his feet and made to stand. A clatter tells him the chair is kicked away.

_Oh crap._

Vallis spreads his arms in a _what-can-you-do?_ manner, a friendly gesture that was all the more dangerous for it's casualness.

"I gotta tell you, it'll be a lot more satisfyin' payin' your brother what I owe him personally, but if I have to pay him through you, I can do that too."

Sam doesn't respond, just tenses, preparing himself for what he knows is coming, but he doesn't have to answer, because someone else does it for him.

"Boss," a new voice cuts in. Sam can't see the new arrival, but Vallis has stopped his advance for the moment so he sags in the arms of his captors and listens.

"Foz just called," the newcomer's rushed voice is thick with implication. "Said somebody broke in and roughed him up. Somebody lookin' for you."

"Who was it?"

"He didn't know, but he said the guy told him he was gonna go lookin' for Maggi next."

"The weasel," Vallis sneers. "I'll kill him if anything happens to her."

"You think Foz talked?" Gruff asks.

Vallis turns back to them. "I know he did. Tex, Kid, take this guy down to the basement. Make sure he keeps quiet. Shrivey, call Mags. Go pick her up if you have to. I want her here in hour."

"What about Foz?"

"We'll worry about Foz after I get Winchester."


	3. It's Not Personal

_A/N: Heaps of thanks to supernatfem76, geminigrl11, Thorny Hedge, Kaewi, Spense, freedomfly, monkeymuse, lelann37, and PrincessOfHeartsNYP for leavin' me reviews for chapter 2. I really appreciate it guys. This one's for you!_

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Pastor Jim stands solemnly nearby, glancing at Dean when he catches the younger man's impatient fidgeting. That's his Dean, all bottled rage and emotion just waiting for an outlet to be unleashed. He might as well be standing in an elevator with a caged animal - a restless and dangerous caged animal that really has no business going headfirst into an interrogation. Especially with something so valuable at stake.

Years of training have primed Dean for situations like this – the research, the detective work, the hunt, the fight – but no amount of investigation or fieldwork could have possibly prepared him for the realism of his family being involved, let alone his brother. So when Dean shifts, it's into a mode Jim recognizes straight away. It's no surprise really; it's the same mode John Winchester himself has been working in for the past 22 years.

Dean's shifted into Hunter mode, angry and on edge and pure focus. It's the place where he's most comfortable, the place where he can operate at his best. It's his job, his calling.

But where hunting is Dean's calling, Sam is Dean's life. Therein lay the difference. This is about his brother. If he'd been known to advance recklessly before, it'll be nothing compared to what he'll be willing to do now.

John would have chastised the boy for letting his emotions interfere with his judgment, would have ordered him to stand down, but Jim has never agreed with the way John handles his boys.

True, Dean's attached to the situation; it's personal. The effect, the aggression, the emotional highs and lows – in a way, it's the same with hunting. Jim, of all people, understands how difficult it is for him to switch it off or to just come down.

But if he doesn't calm down and at least attempt to think clearly, the two of them will be getting nowhere fast, even if Dean keeps his cool long enough to not shoot Maggi just for spite.

"Relax, Dean. This is the best lead we've had." It's Jim's way of telling him to cool it, and he knows Dean understands its purpose without even looking at his old friend. Jim watches as the younger hunter raises his hand to his forehead in a frustrated gesture and bites back what he is sure would have been a lewd remark.

"It's our only lead," Dean shoots back instead. His tone is sharper than intended, but Jim is too much of a pacifist to address the issue. By that time a distorted version of a beep signals their arrival on the 4th floor and the elevator groans wearily as it opens its doors.

Dean, of course, stalks out without preamble, immediately scanning the derelict hall for apartment 415. It doesn't take him long to find.

Maggi Delatour had narrowly escaped incarceration herself after Vallis was put away, and rumor had it she'd gone straight after the scare. Her history was a matter of public record, as was her permanent address and place of employment._ A perfect way to keep a low profile_, Dean thinks. _Right out in the open_.

Dean checks his 9 mil, which is tucked under his shirt in his jeans, before reaching out to knock. The gentle hand on his arm stops him. He glances at the Pastor, who nods once, indicating Dean step aside. "Let me."

Dean hesitates, opens his mouth to protest, but a cocked eyebrow from the older man snaps it shut again. As much as it begrudges him to do so, he relents under the Pastor's pointed gaze. There is no telling how Maggi will react when she sees him. If she recognizes him even before she's opened the door, she could hole up or call the police, both of which are time-consuming options Dean would prefer to pass on.

Relenting, Dean steps aside and out of view, noticing for the first time that Jim has his Bible in his hand. Had he had it with him in the car? Dean's been so focused on getting to Maggi and questioning her about Sam that he hadn't even noticed.

Jim knocks and then stands back, clasping his hands in front of him.

Footsteps can be heard on the other side of the door, followed by the clinking of locks drawn back.

Maggi appears in the door, her body language expectant, "Hey, I been waitin' for you…" She stops, blinking at her caller.

Maggi's short, shorter than even Dean remembers, but she's still built like a man-eater. Dean might've admired the view if seeing her hadn't made his vision go red.

Jim's immune to her charms. "Good afternoon, ma'am," he says pleasantly. "Tell me, have you ever given thought to the Kingdom of Heaven?"

"Excuse me?"

"The Kingdom of Heaven?"

Maggi frowns. She isn't the least bit intimidated by the salt and pepper-haired man with the white collar. It's most likely because Jim looks about as none-threatening as Mr. Rogers with a Bible at the moment. "You one 'a them Witness guys?" she asks impatiently, "'Cause I'm tellin' you right now, you can take your witness somewhere else. I ain't interested."

Jim smiles politely. "Come now, young lady. At least hear me out."

"I don't have time for this," she says intolerantly and moves to shut the door.

It doesn't close. There's a foot in the way, and suddenly she's looking into a familiar face.

"Winchester." She spits the word like acid.

"Hey Mags," Dean says, using his height to loom over her.

She doesn't shrink back. "What are you doing here?"

"I was in the neighborhood," he says blithely, then – just to be cheeky – throws her a look of hurt. "You gonna invite us in?"

Maggi glances at Jim, then back at Dean. "No."

_Still got sass_. Dean shrugs and pushes easily past her. He's in her apartment now and as Jim steps in and shuts the door behind them, Dean addresses Maggi. "I need some information. About Vallis."

"Vallis," she snorts. "I can't believe you, Winchester. V's in jail. Or don't you remember? Now get outta my house before I call the police."

"Oh, I remember all right," Dean replies and sits unworriedly on her sofa. "Funny that it'd slip your mind he's out now."

Her hesitation is minute, but he still catches it. "He's out, huh? Well I wouldn' know. I ain't seen 'V since he got put away."

_She's a good actress_, Dean thinks. Probably the reason why she got let off. But Dean's had years of experience being the actor himself and he knows a liar when he sees one.

"Oh haven't you?" he says conversationally. "'Cause I hear you went to see him a lot. And I think you might know where he's at now."

He's ruffling her feathers and he knows it. To her credit Maggi keeps her cool, but if looks could kill, Dean would already have added his name to Jefferson Parish's homicide victims list. She glares at him, folding her arms crossly. "What does it matter to you, anyway, Winchester? You got what you wanted."

Behind her, Pastor Jim chuckles. "Wonderful disposition."

"Look, I don't know how you found me after all these years but it won't do you any good…"

Dean is off the sofa and advancing toward her before she has time to finish. "You listen to me," he growls and watches with satisfaction as she shrinks away from him. It shouldn't please him to frighten her like this, to tower ominously over her and force information out of her. Sam wouldn't have liked it. Sam would have restrained him, tried to talk some sense into him with his god damned soulful eyes. But Sam's not here and Dean's on the edge of losing himself to find him. "You were hiding him then and you're hiding him now."

"Dean."

When Jim speaks his voice is calm, rational. His eyes are steady too, meeting Dean's without judgment or guile, and the part of Dean that's given to hysteria thinks that having Jim along isn't at all to help him _find_ Sam – it's to keep him from _killing_ somebody.

Dean's always liked Pastor Jim, even when he and Sam were kids. He likes Jim's direct style, and his coolly calculated attitude. Even now he finds himself drawing strength from it, now when the anger and rage and weight of the day seem to press down on him with such force that it leaves him breathless.

"Dean, the phone."

With a start, Dean realizes that Maggi's cell is ringing.

The question in Jim's tone finally registers. He's looking to Dean for instructions. _It's your call, son._

Dean nods and draws his gun. "Hold her," he says tightly.

With practiced efficiency, Jim takes Maggi's arms, securing them behind her back in one swift motion. She's too small for her struggles to really do any good, but she's bucking and thrashing like she's determined to go down fighting. "Lemme go you…!"

Dean flashes his gun at her and when she sees it, she slows. He doesn't like pressing it to her neck, which causes her to stop fighting completely, but she needs to know he means business. "Say hello," he orders, plucking the phone from her pocket and opening the flip.

Maggi glares at him when he holds it to her ear, but a playful little nudge with the barrel of the weapon and she caves. "Hello."

By the time Dean's got the phone to his own ear and Jim's adjusted his hold on Maggi so his left hand is free to clamp firmly over her mouth, a voice on the other line starts speaking. "It's Shriv, Mags. Listen, I only got a minute. Somebody roughed up Foz and we think they might be headin' for you next. 'V wants me to pick you up. Meet me at the Bunkhouse in half an hour?"

Dean snaps the phone shut just as Jim releases Maggi. "Gimme that phone!" she barks, reaching for it.

"Oh sorry," Dean says lightly. "But Shriv said to tell you hi."

"Why you…!"

Dean turns his attention to the Pastor. "Let's tie her up."

"You got a plan?" Jim asks.

Dean grins and, for a moment, he's the kid that snuck a playboy centerfold into Jim's Bible before Midnight Mass. "'Course I got a plan," he snarks. "Now let's go find my brother."

* * *

"Spit it out, Sam!" his father barks. There's a measured calmness to his tone, one Sam's heard at least a million times. It tells him that his father's already in a mood, and that talking to him is going to be next to impossible. But his bags are already packed and it's literally now or never.

"I'm going to college, Dad," Sam states, his voice flat. "I'm leaving for Stanford in the morning."

He's waiting for the explosion, expecting it, because his father's face has gone blank, wiped clean of any emotion. Not that he ever showed much emotion to begin with, but it's the first of many stages in losing his temper, and if there's anyone who can make John Winchester lose his temper, it's his youngest son.

"Sam," Dean says, his voice placating but firm. _Don't do this. Not now._

Sam shakes his head. He doesn't want to hurt his brother. He doesn't even want to hurt his father, but the fight escalates until John's red in the face and Dean storms out to get some air.

Sam knows his father is furious, knows that he hasn't exactly made it easy for his small family in his 18 years, but it's taking every ounce of composure and strength he's got to stand his ground.

What's bad is he knows Dean would never defy their dad like this. What's worse is that the confrontation is happening just the way he pictured it would. He could never live up to his father's expectations, not in the effortless way Dean could. It doesn't matter that Sam has straight A's, that he's at the top of his class. School, sports, Graduation, _advancement -_ none of that is of any importance to his father. What's important is that Sam knows how to bless the iron, clean the shotgun, shoot at moving targets from an impossible distance and recite Latin with perfect annunciation.

It's a hard truth to swallow: His father doesn't want sons, he wants soldiers, and Sam's never wanted a commanding officer, he wants a dad.

Everything he has and everything he is revolves around his father and his brother, around this life - _their_ life. It's not his life, never has been, and he isn't really sure why. Going to college, actually making something of himself, being _normal…safe_ – it's all he's ever wanted. It's something he knows from the very core of his being that he'll excel at and enjoy. It's a life that should have made any parent proud.

Yet everything Sam has ever done in his life isn't good enough. He isn't good enough.

"Fine." His father's voice is low now, calm. He's done raging and shouting. The argument is over; Sam isn't worth his time anymore. "You go, but if you walk out that door, don't bother coming back…"

_Don't bother coming back…_

Sam comes to – the cold wakes him – long enough to realize that he's not where he's supposed to be. His father is gone, as is his brother, and he's definitely not in a motel room. He's bound, legs splayed awkwardly in front of him, back pressed against something that can only be concrete for the cold and brittle that bites into his skin.

He isn't dead, and as reassuring a thought as that is, it's disturbing enough to find that he sure feels like it.

Is he alone? He knows he should open his eyes, try and reassess his condition, but it hurts to breathe and his head is screaming and really, is it possible to hurt in so many places without being dead?

What in the hell had hit him?

Oh, yeah. A fire extinguisher. Two men, in the parking lot, and _I'm going to college, dad. I'm leaving for Stanford in the morning…_

It occurs to him the next time he wakes – this time to tapping on the side of his face – that he probably has a concussion.

Sam tries to drift, to allow the pounding in his head to melt into something a little more dark and comfortable, but it's no good; the tapping is too insistent. It isn't a rough tap, like Dean sometimes tortures him with to wake him up. No, it's light, gentle even, and so very out of place given his circumstances.

Blearily, he opens his eyes. It takes an enormous amount of concentration just to focus, and it hurts a lot more than it's supposed to, on the two little faces next to him.

Two?

No. Just one little face. A little girl?

Is he dreaming?

She's sitting on a crate next to him, studying his profile, her tiny fingers lightly stroking his temple and trailing down his cheek with curious gentleness.

She's adorable, with large, round eyes set in a doll-like face. Dark blond hair, the color of Dean's, falls lightly in small, unkempt curls just above her shoulders. Forgetting himself, Sam immediately scans her slight frame, looking for the telltale signs of abuse or injury. If he's a prisoner here, perhaps she is too.

That is, if she's even real. Sam knows from personal experience that concussions tend to play merry hell on a person's psyche. Nursing Dean through an imaginary werecat attack in the comfort of their motel room after a particularly nasty run-in with an even nastier ghost testified to that.

Real or hallucination, however, he has to make sure.

A cursory inspection tells him she's unharmed, just dirty. And thin, too; painfully thin.

Her little fingers stop their trek down his cheek when she notices he's awake.

Sam gives a small smile, an offering to show that he means no harm. He doesn't want to frighten her, and he most definitely doesn't want her to run away, so he keeps perfectly still, allowing her see for herself that he isn't a danger. The child sniffles, but stays pressed against his side, one tiny hand planted on his shoulder, the other dropping to clench the bottom of her grubby, too-large T-shirt.

She cocks her head to the side, her eyes shining, and returns his smile with a shy grin of her own.

"Hey there," he says quietly, trying to keep his voice as friendly and non-threatening as possible. "What's your name?"

"Cowa," she answers, her tone high in pitch and delicate.

Sam has to catch his breath. He didn't think he'd actually get an answer on the first try.

"Cowa?" he repeats.

She frowns. "No. Cowa."

"Cora?"

"Uh huh."

Cute. "Hi Cora, I'm Sam."

"Sam?"

"That's right. Sam."

"I'm Cowa and I'm fwee," she says seriously, holding up four fingers.

Sam's smile is genuine now. "Three? Wow, that's a big number." She beams at his words, her giggle pure sunshine.

An unexpected wave of dizziness makes his head swim and Sam shuts his eyes in an attempt to pull himself together. He can't pass out now. Not before he knows who she is and why she's here.

Only a few seconds pass before he opens his eyes again. She's still watching him.

"Can I ask you a question, Cora?" he asks, and tries not to sound too expectant.

"Uh huh."

"What are you doing here?"

"Boo-boo," she states, matter-of-factly.

Sam can't help but grimace. He isn't anywhere near an expert on children, but 'boo-boo' is just as universal as 'bad guy' in kid-language. Boo-boo means hurt, and hurt means injury.

"Where is it, Cora?" he asks. Despite the fact that he's seen no signs of physical abuse on her, Sam's blood boils with fury at the mere thought. "Where's the…the boo-boo?"

"Here," she answers, her eyes huge, and reaches up.

Little fingers run lightly over the blood-encrusted gash on his temple and Sam deflates almost instantly, her child's innocence causing his eyes to sting. He understands now why she'd been studying his face so intently before he'd woke. She'd seen the wound on his temple, and probably the blood that trickled in a line down the side of his face.

Yeah. Boo-boo.

"Boo-boo hurt?" she asks, her little face so close to his he can feel her breath on his cheek.

Sam inhales deep, at the cost of a certain amount of nausea, and tries to give her his most reassuring smile. "Yeah," he says gently, "It hurts a little bit."

"I fix it," she declares, serious again. He wants to smile, to tell her that it's okay, but she's already moving, leaning into him, standing on tiptoes to gain higher purchase. She's so little and Sam guesses what she wants so he bends down slightly, expecting a whisper in his ear or something of the like. Instead, little lips touch his forehead, directly over the gash.

It still doesn't explain who she is or why she's there, but Sam's too touched for words, rendered speechless as she wobbles slightly before catching her balance on the crate and fixes him with the brightest smile he's ever seen. "All better?" she asks.

Now her eyes are expectant and it takes a moment for Sam to find his voice, and when he does he doesn't care that it cracks with emotion. "All better. Thank you."

"Cora!"

The sharp tenor causes the little girl to jump, threatening her precarious balance on her perch next to Sam. "Jusin." She turns toward the voice as if she's been caught doing something wrong. Which, apparently, she has.

"I sorry, Jusin." Cora scrambles off her crate as the young man from before – _Justin?_ - storms into the room. Sam can't help but notice the way he scoops her up in his arms; it's as if Sam's the dangerous one, not vice-versa.

"What are you doing in here, Squirt? You know you're not supposed to be in here." He's firm with her, but there's no mistaking the undertones of concern in his voice.

"Boo-boo," she says, pointing at Sam. "He has boo-boo. I fix it."

The kid meets Sam's eyes for only a moment before looking away, clearly uncomfortable. He looks defeated as he sets the little girl back on the floor, as if he's the prisoner, not Sam.

"Go back upstairs," he tells her gently. Sam doesn't miss the fondness in the kid's voice. Or the fear. He recognizes it; he's heard it a million times in his own brother. The kid's afraid for her. The little girl is important to him.

Definitely family - there's too much resemblance not to be. Daughter? No way, too young. The kid can't be any older than 17. Besides, she called him 'Jusin', not 'Daddy'.

Sister? Niece?

He's banking on sister.

"I wanna say," she whines, and Sam now understands why Dean teases him about his "puppy-dog" eyes.

"No," the kid says stiffly. He gestures in another direction. "Now go back upstairs."

"But…"

"No." He cuts her off harshly, but Sam watches as he relents, bending until his knees touch the floor and bringing himself down to the little girl's level. He touches her chin and speaks softly, as if he doesn't want Sam to hear. "You want to stay with Justin, right?"

At her tiny nod he continues, "Then you have to listen to me. Go back upstairs where it's safe. I'll come get you when it's time to go home."

"Kay, Jusin. Kay." Cora is rubbing her eyes and yawning by the time she turns and scampers away. Sam watches her, waits until she's gone before addressing the kid. "You know it's dangerous for her here."

The kid turns, glaring at him and, if possible, looks even more defeated. "Shut up," he spits.

Sam's hit a nerve. He decides to run with it. "She your sister?"

"What's it to you?"

He wants to say he has a big brother too, that he knows the look, understands the connection, the fierce love and protection, but he's just spent the last who-knows-how-long trying to convince them that he doesn't have a brother.

"This isn't a place for a little girl," he says instead.

The kid's face darkens. "You don't think I know that?" he snaps. Angrily he picks up the crate and returns it to where it must have rested before little determined hands pulled it away. It had to have been empty for such a little girl to move it in the first place.

The kid has stopped, but his back is to Sam. Sam's expecting him to leave, to storm out, but he turns, fixing sad eyes on him. "Look, I know what it must look like but…if you are who you say you are, it's not personal. Boss just wants this Winchester guy."

"That's what you keep saying. How can I convince you that I don't know who you're talking about?"

"I'm not supposed to talk to you," the kid mumbles, but Sam's sure he sees a flicker of doubt in those troubled eyes.


	4. Finding Sam

_A/N: Gobs of thanks to those of you who have left me reviews, especially lelann37, ephiny63, becci, freedomfly, bhoney, PrincessOfHeartsNYP, and supernatfem76 for encouraging me through chapter 3! Love you guys!_

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A hard and unforgiving fist rips across Sam's face once again, snapping his head violently to the side.

"Where is he?" Vallis demands.

Despite himself, Sam groans, tasting blood in his mouth. He doesn't remember being dragged out for interrogation again, doesn't remember if the little girl came back to check on him after her brother left, hell, he's having a hard time remembering which way is up and which is down.

Half kneeling, half being held up by two strangers, Sam tries feverishly to stand on his own, to not depend on anything but his own steam, but his abused and depleted body is listening to him about as well as the guy delivering the punches.

The blow razes Sam's already helplessly flailing equilibrium and, as his head lolls drunkenly back to its original position, he's already mustering what's left of his strength to glare audaciously back at his captor. Even dazed a good deal of undignified vocabulary is coming to mind – _Dean's vocabulary_, he muses – but since he can't seem to catch his breath after being pummeled within an inch of his life, he settles for something quick and to the point.

The "Go to hell" he manages to get out is more sluggish and breathy than he would have liked, but it nonetheless has the same effect.

A curt nod from Vallis and the man on his right – Gruff – half turns and backhands Sam hard enough to have knocked him down had he and the kid not kept hold of his arms.

Another blow follows directly to the stomach and for Sam, it's like being hit by a battering ram. Reeling, Sam doubles over as far as the men holding him will allow. Their graciousness, however, has long since worn out and a hand snags his hair, wrenching his head back up and straining his neck.

"I can do this all day, _Winchester_. Where's your brother?"

He tries to answer, but his voice is strangled by the position. "W-wrong… guy… don' know…who 're…talkin'…bou…"

Frustration is evident in Vallis's face. He nods once and Sam's head is dropped. Sam does his best not to react, but the men at his sides choose that particular moment to let him go. He's kicked full-force across the face, the ferocity of the strike sending him staggering.

He hits his knees, hissing in pain.

Vallis delivers another devastating punch to the stomach, this one leaving Sam winded and struggling for air. "I've waited a long time to get even with your brother, Winchester." Another crack, this time to the jaw. "Spent a lotta time in the box thinkin' about all the things I was gonna do to him. All the ways I could break him like he tried to break me!"

Sam's brain scrambles to make sense of all this information. The kick to his side is followed by a heavy boot slamming into the back of his skull and, without his hands free, there's no way to break his fall. He pitches forward, the impact sending him sliding.

His collision with the concrete is hard, and hitting it is almost as bad as getting punted in the head; his cheek and jaw will no doubt be skinned. It makes him wonder what kind of face Dean will find when he gets here.

And he will get here. Sam's holding on to that.

His vision winks out and for a moment he can't breathe, can't see…and then they're talking above him.

"Calm down, 'V."

"Get off my back, damn it!"

Sam tries to listen, to concentrate, but the blows have done much more than rattle his senses. He hears, but doesn't understand. Something about Dean and prison and _waiting_. It doesn't make sense, and all he can do is lay there, breathless and dizzy and nauseous with pain.

"Boss?" an uncertain voice cuts through the haze surrounding him. The kid. "What if…you know…he's telling the truth?"

"He ain't tellin' the truth." As if to emphasize the point, a heel smashes into Sam's ribs, tearing a tortured cry from his already split and bleeding lips.

Sheer agony spears through him as more follow and Sam jerks his body with each spasm of pain. He squeezes his eyes shut, his muffled cries barely rising above the tumult. The onslaught continues until Vallis is panting.

Sam is close to blacking out now, warm blood trickling down his forehead and between his eyes to mix with sweat and grime. Vallis crouches next to him and this time, when he speaks, his voice is measured. "Haven't you had enough, kid?" he asks. "Just tell us where your brother is and you can go back to your motel room and never have to see our pretty faces ever again."

He's lying, Sam knows. He's seen their definitely-not-pretty faces and, although humans tend to have less of a pattern than their normal hunts, one thing he knows for certain is that humans like to be caught even less than the things that go bump in the night. They'll find Dean, kill him, and then kill Sam just to cover their tracks.

It takes everything in him to open his eyes. He'll defend Dean with his last breath if that's what it comes down to, so little by little, every breath an acid-sharp jolt of suppressed agony, he moves his mouth enough to stutter, "Not…ly...lying. No…no…br'thr."

Sam barely registers the kick that follows. Or the voices that are now talking over him.

"…Maggi?"

"…told 'er I'd pick 'er up…showed…waited…"

"…gone wrong."

"…might'a got her?"

"…we need to…outta here."

"…Not 'til I…"

"…forget this guy…"

"…you're killing him…"

"…shut the…up Kid…message…"

"…company…"

"…Winchester…"

"…get this guy up."

The last order is barked and Sam is pulled upright and forced to his knees.

_Is this it? _he thinks distantly. Will they kill him now?

"I'm gonna ask you one more time, Winchester. Where's your brother?"

Ironically enough, Sam's getting _really_ tired of hearing that question.

"Don'…have…don' hav…broth'r…"

* * *

Dean glances up and down the street. It's deserted, but that only makes it that much more unnerving. The SUV he's followed here, the one sent to pick up Maggi, had entered into a rusty, roll-down garage and disappeared, leaving him to make his way, calculating and silent, along the side of the warehouse to find another way in.

What he discovers in his trek is that the abandoned and forgotten warehouse he's been led to is not so abandoned and forgotten. From a distance, Dean watches as a pickup pulls into a small parking lot already littered with vacant cars and the men inside enter into a steel door beneath a single caged light bulb.

For the barest instant when the door opens, Dean hears voices shouting and cheering, the sounds of a bar or a party in full swing. There's a bouncer standing just inside and Dean sees him exchange a few words with the men before the door shuts behind them.

Options are few here and Dean has to take a breath to quell the anxiety that keeps creeping up on him. He can't afford to mess up, to make a wrong decision, to go a wrong direction. He has no idea if this is the right place, if Sam is even here. There's still too much he doesn't know, too much out of his control. He's treading on thin ice and he can't help but feel that sooner or later he'll slip up. And when he slips the ice will crack and when it cracks someone will die.

And that someone, he's afraid, will be Sam.

He can't let that happen. He can't let Sam down. Now that their father is basically AWOL, Sam is the one person he can't bear to let down. To lose.

No, he can't let that happen. Won't let that happen. So he sets his teeth and mentally reviews his options. Spend valuable time searching the premises to find another way inside…or try the old fashioned way?

The door opens again and out steps the bouncer, leaning his considerable bulk against the side of the building and lights up a cigarette.

All right. Old fashioned it is…

There are cigarette butts and dirty longneck bottles littering the lot Dean strides openly and deliberately through. The bouncer, a thick, beefy man with a bald, tattooed head, only raises it when the crunching of Dean's boots is practically on top of him. He eyes Dean warily, but admits him nonetheless when Dean slides him a few bills.

The atmosphere inside the warehouse is sharply different than that of the outside. It looks like a normal bar, with low lighting, dirty tables, and neon signs that barely cut through the smoke-filled room. A few pools tables are scattered in front of a surprisingly well-stocked bar and a jukebox blares from a corner, although the music can barely be heard over the raucous shouts and cheering.

Illegal activity is written all over this place, from the drugs being dealt openly to the large arena in the center of the crowded room where pit bulls are viciously tearing at each other for the sport of their onlookers.

Dean wrinkles his nose. The place reeks of blood and alcohol, sweat, and…and wet dog. It's hot too, the absence of an air conditioner doing nothing for the too many smells and too many bodies stuffed into a too small of an area.

It's definitely the seediest looking crowd Dean's been a part of for a while. There's blatant aggression and impatience practically permeating the air and everyone around is either drunk, amped up on something, or jaded-enough looking to be left alone. Dean hardens his expression and hopes that he falls into that final category.

It isn't difficult to act the part at the moment.

There's a door marked Do Not Enter behind the arena and Dean knows that's as good a place as any to start. Just as he's reaching for the door, however, the heavy weight of a restraining hand falls on his shoulder. Dean tenses and spins, his own hand immediately going for the knife tucked in his belt.

"Easy, easy" Jim whispers, reading the surprise and hostility on Dean's face.

Dean curses under his breath, dropping his hand. Jim's dressed in civilian clothes, an odd sight for the younger man. He doesn't bother asking how Jim got inside after their split, and he doesn't care. "Everything ready to go?"

"Taken care of. You find anything?"

"Not yet."

"Then we better move. We won't have long."

No one has taken notice of their exchange and the pair wordlessly traverse the door and into an unlit stairwell. It's dark and empty and Dean's reaching for his gun before the door has even had time to _click_ shut behind them.

He hears a gun magazine being ejected, then reseated as Jim checks his own firearm. It reminds Dean, once again, how grateful he is for his friend.

Grateful for Jim's loyalty, grateful for his support, but most of all, for being his anchor; someone to hold on to when Dean's own anchor had gone and there was nothing else to keep him grounded.

In the whole slew of emotions he's experienced since Sam's disappearance, fear and anger and worry being at the top of that list, gratitude and thanks, he knows, have been poorly expressed. The Winchesters have few friends, even fewer who would be willing to risk their lives to come to their aide.

But thanks will have to wait. Dean raises his gun in front of him, then meets the Pastor's eyes. Jim indicates over his shoulder toward the stairway behind them. Dean nods and, without a word, moves to take point.

The stairs go down only one floor, and Dean melts into the shadows, Jim ghosting silently behind him.

The air is stale here, a mixture of rust and old wood, of boxes and dust. It's a far cry from the lively atmosphere upstairs, but that will work to their advantage. Sound will carry in the echoing gloom, give them a few seconds warning if anyone is in their immediate vicinity, and not even fifty feet into the maze of pallets and crates Dean can hear the click of hard heels against concrete.

Dean holds his breath, listening, pressing himself against the cover of the metal shelving at his back. The gun is solid in his grip, a familiar weight, a comfort.

It won't take much for someone to figure out they're here. They'll have to make quick work of this.

There's only one set of footsteps Dean can detect and as the guy passes, Jim moves so quickly that when Dean strikes, using the butt of his gun to knock the man out, the Pastor's there to catch the body before it can hit the floor. He won't be out for long, so as Jim lowers the unconscious stranger to the floor, Dean searches him quickly and confiscates his gun. _Sam will need it_, he tells himself. _He'll need it when I find him._

No one's heard the scuffle, but it won't go unnoticed. Someone will be coming soon and it's too dangerous to stay in one place for long.

Dean tucks the stolen firearm in his pants and stalks on, stopping only to listen for any sounds from Sam or his captors. Soon though, the path splits and Jim taps Dean's shoulder. A brief nod and Dean understands.

Quick and efficient in opposite directions; no wasted words or moves, Jim going left, Dean going right. They'll cover more ground this way, double their chances of finding Sam.

Dean has to move slower now, listen for sounds of his discovery.

It's then he hears it - the distinctive sounds of violence that threaten to throw all thoughts of stealth to wind. Dean concentrates his trained hearing, unable to ignore the sickening sounds of hostility, of flesh and blood being pummeled on by both solid knuckles and heavy boots.

_Oh god, no._ It isn't the sound of a few good punches; it's the sound of some poor bastard being beaten within and inch of his life.

…_Please don't let that be..._

The pain-filled gasp that reaches Dean's ear is familiar, as easily recognizable as his own. "Not…ly...lying. No…no…br'thr."

…_Sam!_

In an instant everything disappears. There's no warehouse, no sound, no weapon in his hand, nothing, and the all-consuming need that climbs up his throat has every sense focused on finding a way to get to that voice.

He doesn't have far to go. He follows the crashing blows and noises of pain until they fall silent. And then Dean stops breathing.

His brother's on the floor, curled on his side, the mop of dark hair slick with sweat and blood. He's bound, beat to hell, barely conscious, and when a final, vicious kick is delivered to his battered body, Dean feels it in his very core.

It doesn't take long for Dean to search out the one responsible, and whatever doubts Dean may have had in his head about to whom the attack at their motel had been directed at and why vanishes when he sees him.

Vallis. The man is bending over Sam, saying something in a quiet voice. There are others in the open area surrounding him - four men, two of them unfamiliar.

Hatred burns hot in his chest, almost trumping the relief he feels at seeing his brother alive, and dim, unwanted memories unwillingly crowd Dean's mind. Charred corpses and closets - men, women, children, all burned alive, their fingers mangled, scoured to the bone, their faces horror-frozen in death.

But he can't afford to stop and think about the cruelty he's seen or the sheer evil of the un-supernatural. Sam hasn't moved now for several minutes and Dean's still waiting to breathe. A great deal of blood is spattered on the cement floor around him, nearly all of it belonging to his brother, and Dean can feel his body tremble with ire.

It's the skinwalker all over again, with Dean bursting into an already demolished living room to find a freaking shapeshifter wearing his face and about to choke the life out of his little brother.

The thought makes Dean dizzy. Will he ever stop being a danger to Sam?

The dizziness is getting worse; Dean's head a bright red blur of rage and frustration. His view is strained, partially blocked by the large piece of machinery he's crouched behind, but he's close enough to hear every word.

"Where's Maggi?" Vallis demands, and Dean's lip curls upward knowingly.

"I called 'er jus' like you said, 'V," Shriv replies, "and told 'er I'd pick 'er up, but she never showed. I waited at the Bunkhouse for 'n hour."

"Something must have gone wrong."

"You think the cops might'a got her?"

"Boss, I got a bad feelin' 'bout this," Tex cuts in. "I think we need to get outta here."

"Not a chance," Vallis turns on him, "Not 'til I do what I came here to do."

"This is crazy! Can't you forget Winchester?" Dean shakes his head; only Tex would have the nerve to talk to Vallis like that.

But Vallis is issuing orders like his old friend hasn't even spoken. "Shriv, find Maggi. Check the Bunkhouse, swing by her apartment. Break the door down if you have to. But find her."

"Boss, you gotta stop," another, more hesitant, voice speaks up and Dean concentrates on the youngest of the group. A _freaking teenager?_ The kid is squirming like he's about to wet himself, glancing at Sam with something akin to concern. "I mean, you're killing him."

"Shut the hell up, Kid," Vallis snaps. "Go take a message to Chuck. Tell him to clear the place and shut down the fights. We're closin' up shop."

As the kid turns to leave, the other man with whom Dean is unfamiliar asks, "Why?"

"We're gonna have company."

"Winchester?"

Dean doesn't have to see his face to know Vallis is smiling. "That's right. Now get this guy up."

Dean watches as Sam is pulled upright, forced to his knees, and for the first time he gets a good look at his brother's face. It's enough to make Dean's finger tense on the trigger and more than enough to make him want to break his cover and open fire, the line between defending the victim and the-sonuvabitches-had-it-coming be damned. But the sight of Sam's chest rising and falling, _breathing_, stops him.

"I'm gonna ask you one more time, Winchester," Vallis's voice is clear, menacing. "Where's your brother?"

Dean barely registers Shrivey and the kid's departure; all his senses are focused on the bowed and bleeding form of his brother. He's not expecting an answer, wonders if Vallis just likes hearing himself monologue because there's no way anyone can take that kind of beating without passing out. Dean's already gauging Sam's condition and possible injuries when, unbelievably, Sam's abused body stirs. It has to be through sheer determination or the trademark Winchester stubbornness that he manages, "Don'…have…don' hav…broth'r…"


	5. Vengeance

_A/N: As always, hugs and much love go to godsdaughter77, MysteryMadchen, Rachel Carter McKenzie, Kaewi, supernatfem76, MidgeVS5, geminigrl11, becci, jenilee, bhoney, and cindy123_

* * *

To Dean, vengeance has always been a word in the dictionary – albeit, a word in bold black letters with his father's picture stamped directly beneath it. John Winchester breathed vengeance, was consumed by it. For years Dean watched it from afar, understood it, admired it even, but never really felt the need himself. A whisper of it maybe, anger definitely - anger at the thing that took mom and ruined their life - but not the clawing, tearing need that frenzied every thought and drove both his father and his brother to push themselves beyond their limits.

He's always known that vengeance is the core, the very backbone of their family, and damn, if that isn't messed up. But he's also understood that it's different for him than it is for Sam or for his dad. Hunting is ingrained into his very being because it's all he knows, all he's ever known. Hunting is his passion because he's good at it, because it's something he enjoys, and because it's necessary, not just because – like so many other hunters - he's been torn asunder by grief at the sudden and brutal loss of a loved one. Sure, he'd lost mom, but he'd been four at the time. Not like his dad, who had been young and in love and just settling down to start a family. And not like Sam, who had run and run from his birthright like the plague he believed it to be and finally thought he'd found where he belonged in Jess's arms. No, for dad and Sam, the grief and loss had been fresh, open wounds.

But now Dean understands, because _nobody_ messes with his little brother, and if anything happens to Sam, killing the worthless scumbags responsible won't be enough. He won't rest, not until he's inflicted back tenfold every single pain Vallis has caused Sam – caused _him_ – and it's all Dean can think about as the rage tightens his finger on the trigger.

But something isn't right.

It's prickling at his senses, like the sweat that's trickling from his hair and running down his neck. And when Vallis leaves Sam bleeding on the floor - freaking_ bleeding_ on the floor! – before making his exit, Dean itches to follow. But the proximity to his brother pulls at him and he lingers behind, watching helplessly as two of the remaining henchmen rip his brother from where he lay on the ground. Sam, either too weak to cry out or finally unconscious, doesn't protest as they begin dragging him away.

It's tempting to just barrel in firing but he won't be doing Sam any favors if he gets himself killed. He's outnumbered and shots will only bring more running. Besides, something just isn't _right._

Sam's gone now and Dean's about to follow when a sound from his left has him whirling. The gun's kicked from his grasp, flying across the concrete, and it's _What the-?_ and _Stupid!_ and _I should have been paying attention!_

"Winchester," a voice declares, and Dean knows it immediately.

"Shriv," he smiles, straightening, his fingers creeping silently to the second gun concealed under his shirt. "Long time no see."

Shrivey is shaking his head. "You stupid piece, Winchester. Couldn' stay away, could ya?"

Dean's irritated, but he gives a nonchalant shrug in answer. He really doesn't have time for this. "I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by and check on things," he says blithely. "Seems the gang's grown. Who's your friend?"

Shriv doesn't answer, but the incredulous face he's making is a definite giveaway to the fact that, in his mind, Dean's clearly suicidal.

Dean grins back at him before gauging his companion. It's the guy he and Jim knocked out before; back for seconds and, apparently, looking pissed he wasn't awake for the first round.

"You know, tattling isn't very nice," Dean says seriously to him. "Oh, and sorry about the, uh…" he motions to the back of his head and clicks his tongue. And did the guy seriously just growl?

Dean holds out his hand, making the friendly gesture a challenge. "Name's Dean Winchester. Or, if you prefer, the-asshole-who-put-your-boss-away. Either will work."

The big guy, at least 250 with thick, meaty arms, chubby cheeks and a ball cap, takes a step forward before Shriv stops him with a hand on his chest. "Easy Fat," Shriv orders.

Dean catches the name and it's too good not to run with. "Fat?" he nods, pleased. "That's a cute gangster name. Isn't it like some kind of gangster-wannabe rule – nobody uses their real names?"

He's pushing it and if Sam were with him, like he should have been, Dean would have already been able to feel the disapproving glare shooting from his brother. There probably would have been a jab to the back, too, to rein him in, followed by some kind of comparison to Dean's joking and a death wish.

But the smile is gone from Shrivey's face. His buddy doesn't look amused either.

"Yeah, that's real cute, Winchester" Shriv says. Then Shriv is lunging at him, his fist flying. Dean ducks, moving out of the way easily before Fat makes a grab at him from behind. Dean's elbow connects with his face. Bone shatters and Fat stumbles away, holding his face in disbelief and pain.

Shriv is back and rushing him. He's drawn a knife, the dim light glinting off the weapon like a warning. He tackles Dean, sending them both tumbling to the floor. Dean twists, barely avoiding the blade before he's on his feet again.

But Fat's on his feet again, too. The big man half lunges, half falls on top of him. He's a lot faster than Dean anticipates for a man of his size and as Fat manages to get his hands around Dean's neck, Dean's already groping around blindly for something – anything – to grab onto.

His hand closes around something the same moment he brings his knee up, connecting with the bigger man's groin.

Fat's lungs empty and he doubles over, inadvertently releasing Dean's neck. Dean swings the object upward and smashes it into the bigger man's face. Hot blood spills from his nose; another crack, this one to the skull, and Fat's down and he's not getting up.

That leaves Shriv.

Dean glances at the object – a pipe wrench – and gives it a playful toss up in the air, catching it before grinning at the stunned Shrivey.

He recovers quickly and Dean dodges his slash, then a fist from the complete opposite direction. _Oh joy_, Dean thinks irritably. _The freakin' calvary's here_.

Dean's moving now on instinct, shifting from one opponent to the next. These guys are big, but they're untrained. He takes out a blond with an elbow jab to the stomach then, without stopping, sends a sideways kick to a brunette in a flannel jacket. Both go sprawling to the floor just in time for Dean to barely avoid – again – the blade of Shrivey's knife.

The wrench is gone – he may have used it on somebody's face, probably the blond's, and_ boy did his nose bleed_ – but it doesn't really matter now because this time, Dean doesn't move fast enough. Shriv's blade pierces his left shoulder. _Well, crap_, Dean thinks sullenly before the pain finally registers.

Dean hears himself gasp and Shriv leers at him, roughly yanking the knife out and lashing at Dean's exposed midsection.

Surprise registers on Shriv's face when Dean catches his thrust, stopping it just in time, and with the other hand delivers a punch to the kidney.

The blade is dropped and Dean whips a booted foot up, kicking his last opponent full across the face. Shriv doesn't even yelp when a second kick follows, snapping his head back.

Dean's panting but he's the only one left standing.

No, wait...

The kid's there, a gun in his hand. Dean's gun.

Dean's hands automatically move to the back of his pants. He hadn't drawn his remaining weapon during the fight, not wishing to kill any of his opponents, though it would have been easy. Though they probably would have deserved it.

The kid who had stood by – and freaking watched– while Vallis beat the tar out of his brother is standing several yards away. He doesn't move, just aims the stolen gun in Dean's direction, and Dean takes a moment to scrutinize him.

Sam would have dwarfed him in height, but Dean's probably only a few inches taller. He can't be any older than 17, his eyes heavy in his sallow face but with the wiry build of one who's been on the streets for a while. Dean can tell he's trying not to look terrified, but in actuality is failing. Miserably.

Dean narrows his eyes, mulling over his new adversary. The gun doesn't shake in the kid's grip, but he hasn't pulled the trigger yet. That fact alone is enough to give Dean pause, given how far Vallis has gone to get back at him. Vallis wants Dean dead, and it's definitely no secret how badly. It doesn't seem to matter who does the job, either.

That coupled with the last words Dean had heard him say - _"Boss, you gotta stop. I mean, you're killing him."_

This kid isn't a killer. It's in his eyes; the very way he holds himself screams it. And, Dean muses, in his own way, he'd stood up for his brother. For that, Dean decides he can give the kid a little leeway.

Dean raises his hands to show he's weaponless. The kid doesn't need to know yet he's still got the gun he picked up for Sam tucked in his pants. "Look kid, drop the gun. We'll talk this out," he says calmly.

"You Winchester?" the kid asks, his voice thick with suspicion.

There's no point in lying. The kid had to have been standing there while Dean took out four of his buddies.

Dean shrugs. "That'd be me."

"And Sam is…?"

"My brother," Dean finishes for him.

The kid nods, as if confirming something to himself. Then, unexpectedly, he turns the weapon so that he's holding it by the muzzle, extending his arm toward Dean. Offering him the gun. "I want to help you," he says hesitantly.

Okay. Dean wasn't expecting _that_.

Dean drops his hands, wary. The eyebrow he raises is quizzical. "Why?"

The kid surrenders the gun to Dean without protest. "I got my reasons."

"Well I need to know them before I can trust you."

"Look, your brother's alive. I can take you to him…"

"And you're just gonna do that outta the goodness of your heart?" Dean demands.

The kid opens his mouth, like he's got something snide to say, but a loud blast interrupts him. The metal shelves on either side of them shake precariously, making both Dean and his prospective ally duck and cover their heads from falling debris.

"What was that?" the kid cries.

The explosion came from nowhere near them, but there's no doubt in Dean's mind the fire will be spreading fast. Must've hit one or two of the boilers to cause an explosion like that. _Damn, when Jim sets a fire, he sets a fire._

Dean doesn't answer, just glances at his watch. He's running out of time.

"Come on!" he yells to be heard over the din and grabs the kid by the jacket. "Take me to my brother."

* * *

The tapping on his face is back, but Sam can't move.

"Sam?"

Can't move, can't focus, can't _breathe_.

He moans. Hurts. God, it hurts.

"Sam?"

Salt. Damn it, he needs salt. Dad's gonna be ticked he can't find it, but he can't move. Can't move, can't breathe, can't…

"Sam? Say 'wake."

It's too dark and Dean must've left the window open because it's too cold. He's on his knees, heavy body listing forward, heavier head boneless and drooping on his chest. Seatbelt choking him, he's got to move, got to balance himself, because his wrists are screaming and his position is smothering him and his throat keeps closing up from his weight and…

"Sam?"

He tries lifting his head, the tiny voice a beacon to follow, and when did Dean start sounding like a little girl? He manages a jerk, only to splutter and choke from the movement.

There's darkness and cold and something like smoke thick and heavy in the air.

"Sam? Sam, say 'wake."

He wants to answer, wants to tell Dean he's awake, but he can't because he's strangling now, body seizing against lack of air, eyeing watering.

Hurts. He just wants it to stop.

As if in response, little hands touch his cheeks. They're cool against his fevered skin, with the slightly uncoordinated grip of a child. His breath finally eases, his head clearing a fraction, and he remembers.

_Cora_, he thinks hazily, and _she's gotta be terrified_.

The very thought of lifting his head is too much, too impossible, exhausting in it's own right, but he's got someone else to wake up for now, and thinking about someone else gives him the boost he needs to haul the heavy and uncooperative thing up.

Sam blinks, vision tunneling, - and _God, is breathing really necessary?_ – before he raises his head just enough to see big, glistening brown eyes watching him.

It's enough to make his own eyes go wet – or rather, eye, as he can't seem to open both. Cora's there, leaning over him; she looks scared, and as she flickers in and out of focus – _get a grip Sam_ – he opens his mouth, his only thought to reassure her.

But his head is pounding like a fist-sized heartbeat, the drumming pain it's causing making his stomach churn sickeningly, and no words come out. He tries again, attempts to swallow first, but swallowing hurts as much as breathing and there's not enough saliva left in his mouth to be heard and he can't throw up now because Dean'll be ticked he messed up the car…

When he wakes again her little hands are gone and Sam blinks stupidly at the empty space in front of him. She's gone. She's gone and he's alone.

_What the-?_ Had he imagined her?

"Cora?" It's rocks and sandpaper scraping against his throat.

No answer. She's gone. His full weight is back on his wrists, his arms feeling like they're being pulled out of their sockets and sending a steady thrum of pain shooting up and down his body to match the pain in his skull. But, try as he might, he can't bring himself to care. His dad's gone, Jess is gone, his brother's gone, Cora's gone, and he's leaning forward, no strength left to hold himself upright. And there's nothing _to_ hold him upright, no _one _to hold him upright, to keep him fighting, to lean on or to support him.

The feeling of sudden abandonment is staggering, a wave rolling through him, gathering momentum, and for the first time, Sam doubts. Dean should have been here by now. There's no way he would leave Sam to die like this. What if the brother he's defending is dead? Tears sting and blur his one-eyed vision and they're from the pounding of his head and not because he wants his brother so badly he can practically feel him there.

Not like this. God, not like this. _Dean, where are you?_

And then there's nothing.


	6. Fire and Blood

_A/N: A big THANK YOU to you all – especially bhoney, MidgeVS5, Madebyme, supernatfem76, MysteryMadchen, godsdaughter77, cindy123, and PrincessOfHeartsNYP for reviewing chapter 5._

* * *

They're moving quickly, but cautiously, the kid leading the way while Dean follows a few steps behind, scanning their surroundings for any sign of threat. The idea of getting caught isn't appealing, not when he's so close to finding his brother, but neither is getting flame broiled. And the fire is spreading. Fast.

It's feeding itself, wooden pallets and cardboard boxes and God-knows-what-else providing ample amount of fuel to send it writhing like a live creature through the length of the old building. Though he can't see it yet, the unnatural and eerie arch of light that halos the south side of the warehouse is noticeably drawing closer, and Dean has no desire to be around when it reaches them.

They had discussed this, he and Jim, the possibility of the fire hindering their search and rescue, but Dean had needed a distraction to get Sam out, and a way to bring in the authorities without getting caught themselves. He's a wanted man, after all, and being found within a mile of all the crap going down that Maggi had grudgingly told them about would get him a one-way ticket to never see sunlight again. It had been a simple, albeit risky plan – sneak in, find Sam, set up the distraction, and then get out while everyone else is concerned with the mayhem. But Winchester luck has a mind of it's own, so of course it isn't turning out that way.

It doesn't matter. He'll work with what he has, fight through whatever tonight throws at him. He'll get Sam out, if it's the last thing he does, and as he concentrates on keeping them undetectable, the kid unexpectedly murmurs, "My name's Justin."

Dean turns his sharp gaze on the younger man. His face is round, boyish even, and his eyes flicker anxiously around as he speaks. _Scared_, Dean realizes. The kid's scared.

And he has every right to be, doing what he's doing. Defecting.

Dean's supposed to be the enemy.

"So, why the sudden switching sides?" Dean asks briskly. It's an odd turn of events, and there's still an issue of trust; it's only because he doesn't have the time now to search the warehouse himself for Sam that he's even taking the chance following this young stranger.

The kid – Justin – doesn't answer right away. "Vallis killed my family," he finally says, and when he speaks, his voice wobbles slightly.

_That_ takes Dean aback, and his reaction to this news surprises him further. The brief surge of irritation and disbelief has him speeding up to grab a shoulder and get in the kid's face. "So, what – you run off and join his gang the first chance you get?"

"I wouldn't expect you to understand," Justin snaps, his tone abruptly turning vehement.

"Well good," Dean fires back, "Because I sure as hell don't."

There's a tense silence before Justin finally takes a deep breath. "Look," he says, softer – and yeah, they probably should keep it down. Sneaking around and all.

Justin wipes the back of his neck with his hand and continues. "I know it's crazy but…with my family gone, I've got nothing left, and I thought if I could get close enough then…well…I thought…"

And suddenly what he's trying to say makes a little too much sense, as does the strange mixture of fear and exhilaration that Dean had seen in him but couldn't quite put a finger on before.

Seriously, is the kid _that_ stupid? The words are out before he really has the chance to process them. "You thought you could get a little payback?"

The kid's failure to respond is all the admission Dean needs. He turns, continuing in the direction Justin had steered them, before asking scornfully, "And how'd that work out for you?"

Justin still doesn't answer, and he's glaring at the floor now.

"How old are you, anyway?" Dean presses. "Sixteen? Seventeen?"

"Eighteen."

Dean shakes his head. Now isn't the time to get into it with a freaking _teenager_ bent on some misguided revenge scheme, not with Sam still missing and fire advancing toward them. The kid's way out of his league, but he lost his family, and that ought to count for something. Dean can hardly talk, looking back at the past twenty-two years.

"All right, say I believe you," Dean says, letting the derision fall away from his voice. "Answer me this – how the hell are you here if Vallis killed your family?"

Again, the kid doesn't answer right away, but Dean knows he understands the question.

Minutes are passing, along with Dean's patience. "I'm waiting," he urges when the silence drags too far.

"I wasn't there when they…when they came. And by the time the cops found me the house was… Well, there wasn't anything left."

And Dean remembers, remembers flashing his "badge" and asking to see the bodies. Remembers making friends and looking at crime scenes and playing pool. The smoke is beginning to press in on them. Soon they won't be able to see.

"Well," Dean says, and clears his throat. "I can't say I agree with you…but, I don't blame you. I still think you're nuts, I mean, going up against Vallis?"

"You did." It's not a challenge or even self-defense, just the kid stating fact.

There isn't much to say to that so, in tried-and-true big brother fashion, Dean retorts, "That's different."

"How?"

"Because I know what I'm doing."

"Right." The kid half smiles, then stiffens when a familiar figure steps out of the smoke behind them, a black silhouette in stark contrast with the burning backdrop. The gait of the man is familiar, as is his expression.

It's been four years, but even from this distance Dean can recognize the fury and pleasure in it. There's ruthlessness, a careless arrogance about it, as if the look of anger and suspicion is what his face falls into most naturally. He's tall and dark and for an instant, the two men lock eyes.

Vallis's expression doesn't change as he extends his hand and pulls the trigger. Twice.

Dean flinches, the report ringing in his ears, and waits for the pain.

It never comes and for a stunned moment Dean thinks, _he missed_. Then, beside him, the kid sinks to his knees, his hands coming up to cover his stomach. Blood leaks through his fingers, staining his T-shirt. Dean doesn't move, forces himself to stand unmoving, recognizing the act for what it is.

_A challenge._

Tiny tendrils of near-invisible smoke curl upward from the heated muzzle in Vallis's hand. Justin's panicked gasping is loud in his ears and when Dean finally risks a glance in it's direction, the kid looks up at him.

His eyes are brown, and even with surprise and pain chasing each other across his young face, he reminds Dean of something.

It doesn't take long for Dean to figure out what.

Sam, pressing himself into Dean's side, his small hands clutching at his brother's shirt and trembling fearfully as the thunderstorm rages outside._ Make it stop, Dean._

Sam, his training wheels gone, his bike in a ditch, knees scraped and bloody, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes despite his efforts not to "be a baby" in front of his big brother. _Make it stop Dean._

Sam, flustered and angry, clutching his too-long hair, a frustrated habit, because dad never listens and they're always fighting, and all the kid has ever wanted is to just be normal. _Make it stop, Dean._

Sam, his eyes frantic, pulling against his brother as Dean drags him from his bedroom, the fire rushing to consume everything, his entire life stuck to ceiling. _Make it stop, Dean._

Righteous fury surges through him like a gathering storm.

Eyes like that make a big brother willing to do anything to make it stop.

_Challenge accepted, you stupid sonuvabitch!_

Dean allows his face to harden, meets Vallis's forbidding gaze straight out. Worry, helplessness, grief, despair, he gathers it all, channeling it, converting it into a kind of calm anger, letting it show in his eyes and on his face.

Shadows are dancing across the walls and from somewhere behind them, the approaching fire flares, the room growing brighter for a fraction of an instant and roaring with an almost inhuman howl.

But Vallis isn't listening to the fire's warning; he's shaking his head. "Dean Winchester," he says gruffly. "Knew that little prick was lyin'."

"That little prick is my brother," Dean shoots back, also heedless of the encroaching danger. "And wha'da'ya mean 'little'? Have you actually seen him lately?"

"Oh yeah. Tall as I'll get out. Gave my boys a little trouble gettin' him here. Doesn't look a thing like you, though."

The words are casual, monotone, all the more menacing for the lack of threat they contain. _Okay_, Dean thinks acidly. _Two can play at this game._

"Funny seein' you here," he counters, using the same creepy intonation. "Ain't you supposed to be in prison?"

"You know, it's amazing what you can accomplish with friends in high places. Especially when the guy who turns you in jets outta town and can't be reached."

"Well, I don't know how you got out, but you're going back."

"And who's gonna send me back, Winchester?" Vallis is grinning, a magician with a card up his sleeve. "You? You seem to be under the impression that I'm planning on playing fair. Which, of course, I'm not."

Tex, whom Dean noted had been suspiciously missing from the fight earlier, is suddenly behind him. And pointing a gun between Dean's shoulder blades.

For a long moment nobody speaks, nobody moves.

Then, "Gotta love stand-offs," Dean remarks, breaking the silence with sarcasm.

"Search him." Vallis orders.

Dean's patted down, both guns and his knife liberated from his person and tossed aside. Dean glances over his shoulder, "Scratch my back while you're at it?"

When Tex glowers at him, Dean sends him a playful wink.

"Damn Winchester, you tryin' to be a pain in the ass?" Tex asks gruffly.

He probably should keep his mouth shut, but Dean just can't help himself. "Nope. Just comes naturally."

Tex ignores him and grabs the back of his arm instead. As if restraining him will do any good. "Come on, Boss, let's just get this over with and get outta here."

"Save your breath, Tex." Vallis's voice is low, unhurried. "I've been waitin' for this for a long time. I'm gonna enjoy myself."

Dean plasters his smile to his face. He needs answers, preferably before the fire reaches them and complicates things. "So, how'd you find us?" he asks.

Vallis hasn't even bothered raising the gun again. "Come on, Winchester. I've known since you been here. Don't you 'member Debbie? 'Cause she 'membered you."

_Debbie?_ His mind swivels, searching through the names and faces he's encountered since his arrival. _Debbie…Debbie…_

_Aw crap._

Miss Deborah herself, Deborah's Corner Inn.

And hadn't Sam said that a girl in every port would come back to bite him in the…

"Of course," Vallis interrupts his musings, chuckling at Dean's dawning awareness. "She hadn't been entirely sure it was you, you using a fake name and all, but I sent my boys to check it out anyway and, well, you know the rest."

"And speaking of the rest," Dean says conversationally, "Where's Sam?"

"What's the matter, Winchester?" Tex interjects. "Worried about the little brother?"

The casually flippant tone enrages him and, for a moment, his unflappable façade crumbles. "I swear, if you touch him I'll…"

"You'll what?" Tex sneers and, with a nod from his boss, delivers a backhand to Dean's jaw that causes him to stumble in place.

And just like that, Dean's smile is gone; he's through messing around. He calmly raises his head, spits blood onto the floor, and then – without warning - yanks his arm out of Tex's grip. For a moment he wonders if the stab wound in his shoulder will slow him down, will make what he's going to attempt to do impossible, but it doesn't as he grabs the surprised Tex by the shirt and hurls him around. His aim is perfect and Vallis isn't expecting the crash and there's a satisfying _thwump!_ as the two men crash to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

Dean takes full advantage of the distraction to surge for his gun.

He reaches his pile of weapons just as Tex dives for him. He throws the older man off, manages to get a good cuff in with the barrel of the nearest gun, and shoves Tex into a wall of shelves. The shelves are metal, so they don't break or even bend, but everything stacked on all six layers comes crashing down on top of him.

Dean doesn't have time to check and see if Tex is down for the count because then he's tackled and thrown into a stack of crates himself. There's a scuffle and then both men hit the cement, rolling over and over, locked in a deadly hold. The gun's gone, sliding across the floor, spinning like a top, and Dean's lashing out blindly, exchanging blows with his enemy until, with an unspoken agreement, they break away.

Like two predators they circle one another. Dean's lip is still bleeding and he's now the proud owner of the mother-of-all goose-eggs on the back of his head where Vallis had knocked him against the cement flooring - several times - but Vallis isn't looking so hot either, anymore. He's got a nasty gash on his cheek where Dean introduced his face to the concrete and a cluster of even bigger scratches above his eye from Dean's fingernails.

"So," Dean says caustically, rolling his head to loosen the tautness before falling back into a defensive position, arms loose at his sides, half crouched and balancing lithely on the balls of his feet. "Kill any innocent people lately?"

"When are you gonna learn, kid?" Vallis retorts back, his own posture mirroring Dean's. His footwork is smooth, feet moving almost in unison with Dean's as he takes a step. "There aren't any innocent people."

Dean scoffs. "You pull that one from a movie? 'Cause I swear I've heard that lame line somewhere."

_Step. _"Always joking, aren't you, Winchester." _Step. _"That's why I always liked you. You had sass; made me laugh. You could have been my favorite, you know?"

"Yeah, too bad I'm not a psycho killer. Now why don't you just surrender and I'll send you back to jail with all your fingers attached."

_Step. _"Sure, whatever you say," Vallis huffs, and then pulls something shaped like a cylinder from his belt. The _click _tells Dean what it is - a knife, and _jeez, does everybody in this freakin' place carry one?_

Dean eyes the weapon; it's small, a pocketknife, but used right it can still do a decent amount of damage. Permanent damage. The weapon's held loosely at his opponent's side and his face gives away nothing as they continue to circle, sizing the other up and looking for any opening.

"Time for payback," Vallis snarls, and then coils to spring.

Dean hops backward, throwing his arms up and out of the way as the blade catches and rips his shirt.

Flames are starting to cover the shelves around them like moving, jumping blankets, spreading from shelf to shelf, box to box. The smoke's getting thicker, too; pretty soon it will cloud their vision, and Dean's swearing because he _really _doesn't have time for this.

But Vallis is laughing; freaking giggling like fighting to the death in a building burning down around him is the funniest thing in the world.

Dean's got to end this, and end it fast. If Sam isn't dead already the fire will surely finish him off.

_Sam_, he thinks viciously, and as Vallis descends on him again, something inside Dean snaps.

Instead of dodging out of the way and avoiding the strike, Dean shifts his weight, leaving himself wide open and allows the knife to get close enough to graze his stomach, before reaching out and seizing Vallis's wrist, wrenching it solidly in a direction it was never meant to go. There's a satisfying _crack_ and an angry scream, followed by the clatter of the knife hitting the floor.

Dean's not finished yet; he knees Vallis in the stomach, then delivers an uppercut that jerks his chin up and sends the other man unceremoniously sprawling to the floor.

But Vallis has fighting experience, most of it dirty, and he's able to catch Dean by surprise, lashing out with a foot that swipes Dean's legs right out from under him.

Then Vallis is on top of Dean, his blows relentless, hammering into him until Dean's vision goes dark and he's dangerously close to passing out.

A burst of automatic gunfire interrupts the onslaught, stilling Vallis's blows and causing him to roar in pain and disbelief.

Dean cracks his eyes open just in time to see Vallis's mouth go slack, his expression dull, and then his opponent's falling, his limp body slamming heavily onto him.

Dean grunts, the pain in his shoulder flaring angrily as he shoves Vallis off him. As he shoves the body off of him. Dead.

_What the hell just happened?_

Movement makes the disorientation worse, but he finds his answer hunched several feet away, the light of the ever-spreading fire illuminating his face, trembling fingers still clutching the smoking firearm. The kid's barely on his feet, breathing harshly, pain etched all over his features, and Dean curses when he doesn't make it in time to catch him.


	7. Fire and Blood Part 2

_A/N: So yeah, has anyone else ever had a story that you thought was going to be just a little short piece and then it just totally morphs into its own entity? I swear, I thought this was only going to be 4 parts. Sheesh – Sam and Dean just can't do anything the easy way, can they? LOL! Shout outs go to my wonderful friends cindy123, supernatfem76, Madebyme, godsdaughter77, MysteryMadchen, monkeymuse, Ash8, cutelildevil818, MidgeVS5, bhoney, and geminigrl11._

* * *

Justin's knees buckle and suddenly he isn't holding himself up anymore. Dean heaves to his feet, ready to catch him, but he's moving faster than his body's ready to allow; he ends up on his hands and knees, next to the kid's crumpled form.

Flames are licking at the ceiling, the roof above them groaning under the assault. When had the warehouse become an inferno? Dean coughs, smoke sharp and acerbic, and slaps at the kid's face. "Justin!" he shouts. "Justin! Come on, man. Wake up!"

The kid's eyes flicker beneath closed lids as he works to open them. "Come on, kid, come on!" Dean shakes him, vigorously now. "You gotta wake up!"

A crashing noise distracts him and then Dean's rolling, Justin's shirt clutched in both his fists as a hunk of burning roof slams down upon the spot where he and the kid had just been. The heat of the tarred sheet of flame is so close it steals his breath and Dean tucks the kid under his body, protecting him; a human shield.

Broken beams and flaming timbers are raining down all around them. Dean manages to roll off Justin just in time to stave off a staggering wave of dizziness, blood loss and heat and smoke inhalation making a nauseating combination.

And then she's there, a little girl, shaking Justin fearfully. Her big eyes are wide with terror, and her slight form looks so very small and fragile against the hot glow of the burning building. Dean squeezes his eyes shut; shakes his head. He can't decide between _what the hell? _and _where'd she come from? _and_ I'm going insane_ as her image blurs and diffuses around the edges. Damn his eyes.

_She can't be real_, he tells himself, blinking stupidly. _I hit my head. There's no freaking way a little girl is in the middle of all this._

Dean lets his lids fall shut again, this time working to clear his muddled thoughts, but when he opens them, she's still there.

Justin's awake and he's talking. Talking to the little girl.

"G-go," he tells her.

"Jusin?" she utters, her little voice high, heartbroken, and so soft it barely reaches Dean's ears. "Jusin, I wanna say."

"T-take him. Plea…Go."

The little girl snuffles once, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. "Don' wanna go. I wanna say."

There are tears sparkling on her cheeks. A few more words are spoken, words that, this time, Dean can't hear, before the little blond head bends to plant a kiss on the kid's cheek. "Kay, Jusin. Kay."

Peace washes over Justin's struggling features. The pain is there, written all over his face and in the way his body quietly shakes, but a faint smile lifts the corners of his mouth. "T-told you…M-made it…made it r-right...l-love you, s-squirt..."

Then there's a little hand in his, and Dean's being tugged away from the fire, away from the bleeding boy.

Dean casts a frantic glance backward. He doesn't understand; the oddity of the little girl's arrival notwithstanding, he doesn't want to leave Justin here to die.

"Jim!" he screams, but the raging fire swallows his voice.

Dean's coughing, his oxygen reserve almost depleted, when the ceiling groans again. Instinct has him scooping the child up in his arms, folding his body around her as another chunk of flaming debris clatters to the floor inches from them.

Stinging sparks are raining down on them, but Dean's leather jacket should protect them for at least a few minutes. At least, until a lucky spark catches it on fire, too. They've got to get out of here. Fast.

He lifts his head, horrified to see that a mound of flaming rubble is now separating them from Justin.

He can see no way around it and it's getting harder to breathe when an impatient tug on his shirt pulls his attention back. Dean looks down, sees the impossibly small fingers clutching his collar and the little brows drawn over…over round brown eyes.

_Justin's eyes_, he realizes, and for the first time it registers just how light she is in his arms.

Her little mouth moves and the one word she utters is so soft he shouldn't have even heard it. But he does. And he understands.

"Sam."

An eerie, focused calm falls over him; Justin has two bullets in him, the flow of the ever-spreading pool that had once been his life's blood had slowed to a crawl even as Dean watched; perhaps it had stopped completely.

Justin risked his life to help him. Dean won't shame his sacrifice. He's alive, thanks to the kid, and possessing a new and fierce determination - he'll protect this little girl, find Sam, and get all three of them out.

Standing makes his head reel and he's still not sure if he can trust his legs, so he places the child gently on the floor next to him. She reaches for his hand again and Dean feels like a giant as his big fingers envelope hers.

"Where?" he asks.

"'Dis way," she answers, and begins pulling him.

She leads him away from the fire, expertly navigating the warehouse, and Dean's moving faster, breathing harder as the anticipation builds, the taste of ash and smoke on his tongue reminding him why their speed is so crucial. It's disconcerting to think about how he's placing his life – and his brother's life – in the hands of this little child, but her sureness is not only difficult to doubt, but impossible to do so when they enter through a door that Dean knows he would have never found on his own.

It's dark inside, the firelight from outside casting an eerie spotlight on the figure sitting, no kneeling, on the floor at the far end of the otherwise empty room. Dean's heart lurches, caught between dread and outright panic.

"Sam," the little girl says soberly, letting go of his hand and pointing. "Sam has boo-boo. He no wake up. You fix it?"

Dean swallows, his throat dry from more than the heat and smoke, and nods down at her.

Dead to the world, Sam is slumping heavily forward. The restraints binding his arms behind his back to one of the building's supports are nothing but rope, but Dean can see where the weight they're supporting is causing them to sink into the skin of his brother's wrists.

The room moves too fast around him, the pounding too loud in his ears, and Dean half sprints, half stumbles to his injured sibling's side.

Dean had been expecting bad – Sam's a seasoned hunter, after all. There would have been no way freaking _normal _people could have held him if they hadn't surprised him. So yeah, Dean had been expecting bad, but he still can't help cringing at the sight of his brother.

Sam's a mess, colorful splotches of red, purple, and every shade in between decorating his normally clean-shaven features. His face is cut up, swollen, and as Dean watches, a viscous string of blood seeps from a split lip, dangling briefly before thinning enough to drip into the coagulated puddle on the concrete below.

It's too much to grasp, and yet not nearly enough as Dean drops to his knees next to him. Sam's breathing is ragged, fast, his pulse thudding heavily beneath Dean's pressing fingers, but it's his eyes Dean's so desperate to see. He's got to see his eyes. He's got to know Sam's all right, _alive_, and Sam has to see him, has to know that Dean's there.

Dean reaches out his hand, already bloodstained from the knife wound in his shoulder, both his vehemence and exertion leaving him shaky, almost sick with relief, to cup his brother's chin.

"Sam?" he keeps his voice low, not wanting to startle him, but needing him to open his eyes.

It's a relief when Sam jumps; well, not really jumps – twitches maybe, as it seems to be all he can manage at the moment. But the respite quickly fades; Dean still can't see his eyes. Sam's tousled brown hair is limp, soaked with a sweat that, even now, beads his forehead and slips down his face alongside the blood, and as Dean brushes a snarl of it away from his forehead, Sam reacts to his touch by jerking away from him.

Dean's fury is red-hot once again. Vallis had done this; he and his freaking little band of cronies had turned his world upside down, tried taking from him the only thing Dean has left, because of what – vengeance? Getting revenge on the guy who made sure he got what was coming to him in the first place?

He looks again at Sam, Sam who's still breathing hard, still fighting, and can't help but feel that, this time, Vallis really did get what was coming to him.

"Sam?" Dean says again, and watches as his brother works to open his eyes.

It takes a moment, and the familiar hazel orbs are glazed and unfocused when they crack open, but there's recognition there. Recognition and…and something else.

Relief? Gratitude? Love?

Whatever it is, the intensity of it fills his brother's throat when he speaks. "Dean." Just his name, and his voice is so raw it makes Dean's heart constrict in his chest, but it's enough.

"Come on, man," Dean answers, barely able to speak through the pulse in his throat. "I'm gonna get you outta here."

Dean makes quick work of the knots, catching his brother with his arm across the chest when Sam's own arms drop and he falls limply forward.

"Take it easy, take it easy, Sammy," Dean encourages as Sam's breathing hitches and dead muscles spasm.

"Sam? Bro, you with me?" And it's for his brother's comfort, not his own, when Dean holds him closer once Sam lets slip a pain-racked moan, no doubt feeling numb fingers and wrists and arms coming painfully back to life.

He waits a moment for Sam to catch his breath, tries to relieve the tension by throwing in a good jibe about ropes that Sam's nowhere near coherent enough to appreciate…

…or so he thinks.

"S-shut up, j-jerk."

It's enough to make Dean laugh, easy and rough, and in no way, shape, or form does that sound the least bit hysterical.

* * *

The first time he hears Dean's voice, he doesn't trust it. He doesn't want to hope, either. Reality is distorted, blurred; he doesn't know what's real, doesn't know what he's really experiencing and what he's hallucinating. He's tired and sore, tired of being tired and sore, and for the love of all things sacred, why can't they just leave him alone? So when he feels the touch, he instinctively recoils from it, wanting to stop the hurt before it even starts.

The second time he hears Dean, really hears his voice, Sam still doesn't know what to believe. But God, does he want to hope. And Dean's voice is there, calling to him, anxious and desperate and in pain, and if there's a chance Dean's really there, he's got to open his eyes.

He's vague on the details of what follows next, but then the pressure on his wrists eases before disappearing completely and with nothing to hold him up, Sam's falling, slumping limply forward onto something warm and solid and, decidedly, not concrete.

Familiar arms weave around him then and instinctively he grabs onto them. There's no strength behind his grasp and there's fire in his upper body where there hadn't been before, but his brother's warm, _there_, and for the life of him Sam can't help the small sounds of pain that escape as he shakes. Sensation is coming back with a searing vengeance, but Sam forces himself to focus, the words being uttered close to his ear a focal point, sounding a lot like "take it easy" and, most importantly, "Sammy".

Heart and throat full of a thousand different emotions, Sam latches onto the nickname, and the voice when it asks him a question.

He knows he needs to answer, knows Dean will be going out of his mind waiting for him, but all that escapes his lips is an embarrassing noise halfway between a moan and a sob. His voice is also appallingly weak, the raspy "Shut up, jerk," he manages to stutter after a trademark Dean-Winchester-tension-buster not quite loud enough and slurred together like he's drunk.

But his brother laughs, gruff and deeper than usual, and the sound of it is music to his soul.

Laughter gone, Dean's hand is warm on the back of his neck and it pulls Sam down until his forehead is resting in the crook of his brother's shoulder. "Damn, it's good to see you, Sammy," he breathes into Sam's hair.

* * *

And it is. But as much as he wants to sit here with Sam until the kid's ready to move, they can't afford it.

Maneuvering himself so that he's positioned under his brother's arm, Dean shakes him. "Sam? You with me?"

Sam blinks at him, unfocused eyes searching him out. "'D-n? Y-you okay?" he asks.

And hell, if Dean doesn't want to crack up laughing at that. It's too morbid to be funny, that Sam's beat up, ready to face plant, freaking _bleeding_, and he's worried about his brother. The same brother responsible for getting him into this mess in the first place.

No, it's too morbid to laugh. Instead, Dean throws Sam's arm over his shoulder and wraps his own around the youngest Winchester's waist.

"I'm fine. We just gotta make a quick getaway is all. You think you can help me out here?"

Sam's eyes blink faster at that, his forehead creases, and Dean can tell he's trying to pull himself together. Ever the soldier.

Dean gives it to the count of three, then he's lifting, grunting under Sam's weight, and by the time they're both standing, Dean realizes she's gone.

_What the…?_

At first, all Dean can feel is confusion. _Where'd she go? She was just here…_

…_wasn't she?_

Dean searches the room, but it's empty, no sound except for Sam's ragged breathing, and Dean feels the slow, bitter crawl of apprehension inching down his spine.

He doesn't have a name, but he calls out into the emptiness anyway.

No good. The little girl's not there. Dean opens his mouth, the steady stream of obscenities not helping matters any, but she's gone and he lost her and how the heck had she run off without him hearing her anyway?

There's no way something so helpless and little can survive out in that inferno, and the realization is almost crushing: He's failed, he's let down Justin, killed the kid's only family after he died to make sure Dean could save his.

It's ironic, really. From the very beginning, from the first gut-wrenching moment when Dean had realized his brother was missing, Dean had had one thought pounding through his head. It had carved itself into his brain, weighted down his chest, freaking engraved itself along every limb of his body. One thought had kept him going, one goal to achieve or die trying: Finding Sam.

Sam had been taken. Dean could not – would not – rest until he'd found him. He'd sacrifice his own life for his, do anything, go through anyone, kill whoever got in his way, it didn't matter – he'd sworn it to Sam, to himself, that he would find his brother.

But it hadn't been some deserving gangster wannabe to die at Dean's hands in his personal quest. No, life had a sense of humor. Dean had to go and kill a freaking little girl.

Yeah, ironic just doesn't even begin to cover it.

All these thought processes occur in the second it takes his eyes to do a final sweep of the empty space. She's just not there.

Dean locks his jaw, tightens his grip on his brother. He can't afford to dwell on his failure. Sam's struggling to stay on his feet, leaning heavily into him, and Dean knows they've got to get moving. The youngest Winchester looks on the verge of passing out; Dean can already tell by his drooping head and harsh panting that Sam's strength won't last much longer.

It's a chore to get the door open one-handed, and the rush of heat and the sting of eye-smarting smoke that hits them in the face once it's open is sign enough that the danger has spread to their location.

Beside him, Sam gasps, the sudden intake of hot smoke causing his abused lungs to break off in vicious coughing. "D-n…what…?"

The shelving units on both sides of them are burning out of control, turning their escape route into a tunnel of fire. From somewhere above them, glass shatters, probably a window, and Dean ducks, pulling his brother down and instinctively covering him to avoid flying shards.

It takes only a few seconds for Dean, still choking, to shrug out of his jacket. Covering both their heads with the worn leather for protection, Dean answers, "I'll explain later." And then they're running, staying low, boots crunching over splinters of broken glass as they plunge into a warehouse that had only minutes before been dark and quiet.

The next thing Dean knows is he's outside and someone's bending over him.

_Jim_, he realizes, and the knowledge that his friend made it out in tact relaxes him slightly. He knows he should ask Jim what happened, make sure he's all right, but he can't help it when "Where's Sam?" is the first thing out of his mouth.

He can't see Jim's face, but he can imagine it – the amused eyes, the tolerant smile, the shaking head – and he knows his friend understands. "He's fine, Dean. You got him out. Now quit talking."

Dean smiles back, or at least he thinks he does, and when his hand finds the torn huddle of clothing and skin next him he grasps at it – a solid presence, _Sam_. They did it.

He grays out to muttering voices and then hands are patting him down, Jim searching for injuries, and the involuntary hiss that escapes Dean's lips tells him that he's found the nasty surprise in his shoulder.

"Dean?" the Pastor's voice is calm, but urgent.

"Alive," he croaks back, coughing. When the fit subsides, the noise finally registers. Over the crackle of the burning building he can hear sirens, their faint howl in the distance and steadily approaching. Someone inside must have called for help; either that or maybe someone had noticed the blaze from one of the neighboring buildings. They had to get out of there, before their trouble really started.

"Jim?" Dean calls, pushing himself onto his elbows. The older man looks a bit charred on the edges, ash smudges on his face, hair rumpled, but it's the blood covering his front that has Dean fumbling to sit up. "Jim, what…?"

Jim grabs his shoulders, pushes him flat again. "It's okay. Dean, it's not mine."

Dean can't seem to make his mouth work. "We've…we've got to…Sam…outta here…got to…"

"…stay right here." Jim lays a restraining hand on his chest and finishes Dean's sentence for him.

"But…but I'm…"

"You're my nephew and we were looking for your kidnapped brother when we saw the fire. Just relax, I've got everything taken care of."

"But…?"

Jim's sigh is longsuffering. "Dean, we've got to stay. I think I could patch up your shoulder but Sam's hurt bad. He needs a hospital."

Grudgingly, Dean relents, collapsing back onto the ground and muttering a petulant comment about not playing fair. Jim knows Sam's always come first with Dean, and he obviously isn't afraid to exploit that. But Dean knows Jim's right, knows Sam's in a bad way and the fact that his own vision is pin wheeling to the point it's obvious he's lost a lot of blood doesn't help his case any.

He can't concentrate, so he doesn't even try cataloguing his own wounds, but something's bothering him, niggling insistently at the back of his mind. The blood on Jim's shirt – he said it wasn't his, but something happened. Something had to have happened. After the fire had been set, Jim was supposed to rendezvous with Dean, help him in the search for his brother. There would have been no way Jim wouldn't have come unless something had gone wrong.

"Jim?" he calls again.

"Hmmmm…" Jim sounds distracted.

"What happened?"

Jim huffs, annoyed, and says a word that's as close to a curse word as Dean's ever heard him say. "Found your friend's 'fire-starting' room," he explains, and Dean can only imagine what that means. "Did you know he had one? Because I sure didn't. Oh, and by the way, fire was a very _bad _idea."

"Yeah," Dean agrees, but his chuckle is stopped short by a sharp pain in his ribs. Bad idea, but somehow satisfying in the end. Just desserts or justice served or whatever it was they said.

Jim's still talking. "Set the fire like we planned, thinking I had enough time to get out and find you, but they got the drop on me. Knocked me out. There must have been some kind of explosion because when I woke up the fire was everywhere." Jim pauses and Dean hears a humorless _humph_. "Had me trapped. I didn't think I was gonna make it out."

Jim's voice trails off, but Dean can sense there's more to the story. He rolls onto his side, searching for his friend. "How'd you get out?"

It's silent for a moment, and then the Pastor's prominent, leonine features – all three sets of them – take shape in front of him once again. His forehead is creased, his brow drawn, and he looks…confused.

"What's the matter?" Dean demands. "How'd you make it out?"

Jim shakes his head, his own disbelief evident. "A little girl showed me."


	8. Patience

_A/N: Oh so many thanks to Turner97, MidgeVS5, godsdaughter77, Ciya, skag trendy, Madebyme, MysteryMadchen, hpsupernaturalfan, cutelildevil818, cindy123 (btw, your review cracked me up!), supernatfem76, Ash8, jenilee, and PrincessOfHeartsNYP._

* * *

Dean wakes again to chaos. There's shouting and the shrieking of sirens, the buzz of police radios, vehicle doors opening and slamming shut, the loud _whoosh _of water crashing against an unyielding surface, and - over everything else - too many stranger's voices to count.

It's disconcerting to realize that he doesn't remember where he is or what's happened, but as his brain clicks every detail of his surroundings in place, memory returns and has him clambering to sit up.

It's a mistake, and boy is the scenery-spinning thing getting old. It's makes the throbbing in his shoulder literally pound it's displeasure, adding to the fatigue and queasiness that's already begun to lap at the back of his consciousness.

"Take it easy, Sir," a surprised paramedic admonishes, and Dean twists until he's blinking at a tight-lipped brunette in dark blue.

"M' brother…?"

Her only response is a restraining hand to his uninjured shoulder that maneuvers him back against the gravel. "Try to stay still, okay? Now I need you to focus. Do you know where you are?"

Dean ignores her, pushes those helpful hands away. "Where is he? Where's Sam?"

The female medic bears down on him again, putting more of her weight into keeping him immobile. "I'm sure he's fine, Sir. Now please, I need you to…"

"Where's my brother?" Dean demands, and the force of his tone causes the woman to backpedal.

"Dean?" And o_h thank God._ Jim will tell him what's going on.

Dean turns his head toward the sound of his name, Jim's voice distracted at first, but coming from somewhere nearby.

There. Barely visible through the flashing red and blue, Dean sees him abandon a small cluster of uniformed men – questioning him, most likely – and begin making his way toward them.

"Dean, calm down." As always, the Pastor's voice is quiet, but impregnable as he crouches next to him.

"Where's Sam?"

"He's fine. They're loading him up now."

"I wanna go with him." Dean moves to push himself upright again, fights against both sets of hands because there's no way he's being separated from his brother anymore.

The female medic's understanding-face melts into a scowl. "Sir, you…"

"It's all right," Jim assures her, and then his arm is around Dean's waist and pulling him up. "He'll be fine."

Her hands flutter uselessly in the air. "I need to get that shoulder wrapped."

"Do it in the ambulance, then," Dean snaps, and pays no attention to Jim's disapproving frown. It's easier to be irritable than to focus on the way the world tips sickeningly around him.

There's a chuckle and a comment about Dean's charm as soon they're out of earshot, but Dean doesn't reply, just focuses on walking without having to depend too much on his human crutch.

Sam's already inside an ambulance, strapped to a gurney with an oxygen mask covering the lower half his face. The paramedic bending over him gives Dean a sour look as he climbs in, but doesn't argue when saintly-looking Jim tells him that they're brothers and, if it's not too much trouble, could they ride together? It's been a traumatic past few days, after all.

And Dean thought _he_ had charm.

It's a tight fit, but Dean wedges himself in next to the gurney, and his hand immediately disappears under the blanket to clutch his brother's bandaged wrist, because damn it, he's entitled after what they've just been through.

Jim excuses himself with a knowing smirk and a parting threat for Dean to "play nice with the good doctors and nurses".

Yeah, play nice.

* * *

Dean's beginning to realize just how hard it is to "play nice." Especially when the ER doctors are saying things like "head trauma", "broken ribs", "dislocated shoulder", "collapsed lung", and "Mr. Bloom, you need to leave now."

So when Sam's wheeled off to surgery and Dean's hustled into a canary yellow waiting room with orders to sit and take it easy, he can do anything but.

Sit and take it easy? Were they kidding?

Dean hates hospitals. Really.

With every fiber of his being.

He also decides, with the help of the policemen that come in to cross-examine him, that he really hates answering questions, too.

At least Jim had mercy on him, filling him in on the details of their "story" before the authorities arrived and then taking most of the brunt of the immediate questioning while Dean had been busy getting his shoulder checked out in the ambulance. It had been easy enough to play the shock card at that point; it had given him a few moments to finally breathe. And since he'd been able to see his brother, hopped up on painkillers and peacefully out of it lying next to him, he really could.

Jim's story is a solid one, and leave it to a Pastor to stick – _mostly_ – to the truth. It's easier that way, he'd said, and with the abrasions on Sam's wrists and the serious beating he'd been through, there weren't a lot of other options to choose from. Not to mention the integrity that Jim wore like a glove. Damn, that could be used as a weapon in Dean's book.

But really? How many times does he have to answer the same questions?_ Yes sir, my family and I were just passing through. No, I wasn't there when our room was broken into. No, I have no idea where Miss Deborah disappeared to._

Jeez, they were taking notes - did he really have to repeat himself? _No, I didn't know the people who nabbed Sam. No, I told you, we got a call saying where he was and that we were to meet him there, but they told me not to involve the authorities so that's why we didn't. No, the building was already on fire when me and my Uncle went to check it out. Yes, that's when we called the police and yeah, we got a little crispy when we ran inside to drag out survivors._

That last answer gets Dean several stern looks from the inquiring officers, not to mention the _you're-an-idiot_ speech, sugar coated of course, at least twice for "not waiting for the professionals".

He really hates waiting, too.

Waiting and hospitals and waiting and canary yellow wallpaper and _waiting_…

Dean's not good at waiting, at least, not when it comes to Sam anyway, so he paces. He knows he should stop, knows he's probably scaring people, but he's got to keep moving or he'll go crazy.

Folks give him space and, Dean notices, follow his every movement with wary eyes. Most clear out all together, but those who choose to stay give him a wide berth. He's glad for it. There's only one person he really wants to talk to right now.

Well, two people, if you count the tired and haggard looking Jim Murphy stepping out of the elevator.

They pick a quiet corner and settle in to swap information. Jim tells him that there were at least two casualties in the fire, Vallis being identified as one of them. The body would be examined later for what looked to be a "gunshot wound", though the police have thus far been unable to find someone who witnessed the murder.

As Jim goes on, it occurs to Dean just how lucky they are to get off. It could have been worse – a lot worse, seeing as how they were three strangers that just appeared out of nowhere and became unwittingly mixed up in an ongoing crime ring. Jim suspected that having a hand in breaking up such a large underground criminal operation had a great deal to do with it. Apparently, the police found traces of everything on the premises from stolen weapons to drugs.

There isn't much for Dean to share, other than how he found his brother, so for a time they're both quiet.

…But Dean's waiting for it.

It's inevitable; Jim's got that Pastorly-look Dean recognizes from his childhood – eyes that scream _I understand_ and a mixture of compassion and concern blended into a face that just makes you want to open your craw and never stop.

And Dean's dreading it with every passing minute.

Jim can't help it – it's his nature, the minister in him, so when he turns the full force of his attention on him, Dean has to work at keeping himself from cringing.

"You couldn't have known, Dean. You get that, right? That it wasn't your fault?"

Because yeah. Yeah, he knows that. Not that it makes any difference. Knowing and believing are opposite ends of the spectrum at this point.

Jim's right in that he couldn't have known - hell, no one would have in the same situation – but there are so many reasons why this _is_ his fault, starting with the fact that if he had never gone to get Sam from school in the first place, his brother would be safe and sitting in a library or classroom or something right now.

This time was supposed to be about starting over with Sam. Going back on the road with his brother had been sudden; in the wake of Jessica's death, Sam had been desperate to get back into the hunting life, to get revenge on the thing that killed her. In the six months they'd been back together, Sam had faced shape shifters, wendigos, vengeful spirits, even demons. Faced them and survived them all.

The irony of it all isn't lost on him; in the end, the thing Sam would barely survive is Dean.

Man, they've got a messed up family. Sam runs off to be normal – to be _safe_, Dad withdraws, _disappears_, Dean makes a few enemies in the meantime, ticks a few people off, and it's _still_ Sam who gets to suffer for it, all the while freaking' _protecting_ him.

Sam. Protecting him.

Even thinking about it makes him angry. Angry at Vallis, at the people who'd done this. Angry at his father for falling off the radar and not being there when they needed him. Angry at Sam for insisting to stay behind. Angry at himself for leaving him. But most of all angry that, somehow, in all the chaos, the roles had switched.

As far as Dean's concerned, it's his job to protect his brother, not the other way around.

Of course, he couldn't have known what would happen; if he had, he never would have taken them so close to the danger. But where Dean might not have been directly responsible for the outcome, he should have found a way to prevent it from happening in the first place. It was his duty, his God-given birthright. And he should have been there.

"Dean?"

He'd lied to his brother. He'd told him he'd be there for him. Told him he'd watch his back.

A painful pulse begins to beat at his temple. He'd lied to his brother. Lied to him and failed him, and Sam had protected him for it.

Dean doesn't change his face, doesn't even look up. "Yeah. Yeah, I know," and his voice is as empty as his face.

Jim's glaring at him, at the outright lie. And Pastor Jim Murphy can glare like nobody's business.

It makes Dean fidget. "Just…don't, Jim. All right?"

"Dean…"

"I don't want to hear it."

"Well you're going to hear it." The severe tone that comes from his old friend is a surprise to him and, despite himself, Dean flinches. "You'll hear it 'cause you need to hear it."

"Jim…"

"It wasn't your fault. This guy, this Vallis, he was supposed to be in prison. You had no way of knowing…"

"They were looking for me!" Dean snaps, his temper abruptly flaring. "Damn it, Jim! He was protecting me!"

Jim isn't the least bit unsettled by Dean's anger. He cocks his head in challenge. "And you can tell me that you wouldn't have done the same?"

It makes him grind his teeth in frustration; the words as blunt as a physical blow and just as effective. And Dean has nothing to say in return.

"Dean," Jim says, softer now. "Listen to me. It wasn't your fault. And blaming yourself isn't going to help Sam."

No, it won't. He knows that. That in itself is the problem. Nothing he can say or do will help his brother; could even begin to make up for it. Just the knowledge of what Sam had to endure smolders inside of him, a fierce uproar of outrage and bitterness, with no outlet to be released.

"Then what do you suggest I do?" he asks through clenched teeth.

"What I suggest you do is get yourself together and accept the things you can't change. Sam's a big boy, Dean. He knew what going back on the road with you would mean. Your life – _his life -_ whether you like it or not, is dangerous. Supernatural or unsupernatural, it's dangerous.

"And the second thing you can do is stop feeling sorry for yourself. Sam's alive, and he's alive because of_ you_…"

"No, he was _in there_ because of me."

Jim is shaking his head. "You don't get it, do you? You pulled him from a burning building, Dean, and that was after…"

"Just…stop." There's fire in Dean's demand when he interrupts his friend, but it's extinguished almost immediately. He's angry, but not at Jim. God, never at Jim. "Look," he forces out, trying again, softer this time. "I know what you're trying to do, and trust me, I appreciate it. Hell, I probably need it…but…"

It's a rarity that words fail him, except something in his face must've spoke volumes because, after a moment, Jim nods. A silent, albeit reluctant, agreement to back off. For now.

It's a testament to how much Jim really understands that he doesn't waste words like _I'm here_ or _When you're ready_. He doesn't have to.

Jim's always been a mystery to Dean, even from a young age. How a man as kindhearted and freaking humble as Jim Murphy had ever gotten into hunting would forever be on the Winchester's _I-Want-to-Know _list.

The man really was one of a kind. Hunter's hearts were hard, most of them forced into the "business" by tragedy. Violence, blood…secrecy, revenge. It was kill or be killed in their world and it took a certain callous edge to even survive. Dean had no idea what had drawn the Pastor into such a brutal lifestyle, but through it all, he had remained as humane and selfless as the day he'd first met him.

It makes Dean grateful, once again, to have someone to lean on. So he looks up, nods his head, and settles in to wait.

* * *

Jim's worried about Dean. The hours have chewed a hole through the young man's patience and, ever since their brief and frustratingly unproductive exchange, he's kept to himself.

No, shut down, is more like it.

Dean's never been outwardly emotional, even as a child. But the cold, emotionless husk sitting across from him, head down, staring blankly at the tiled floor…it's almost too much for even Jim's well-tested patience.

_But let patience have her perfect work_, he recites to himself. _That ye may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing.*_

Because patience is what will help Dean the most right now. Patience and just being there; a physical presence.

Dean doesn't want or need to talk, and Jim gets that. He really does. It doesn't make seeing the younger man's pain any easier. His fear.

And Jim can see it. Despite Dean's stone-face, Jim can still see it.

It's in his tense posture and the cover of emptiness in his eyes. It's the way he scrubs at his face like someone trying to wake from a nightmare, the way he twists and crushes his hands together.

Although he would have liked everyone to think the contrary, Dean felt fear. Fear was an ever-present angle of their chosen life, albeit an impersonal fear. Fear for the "job", for the innocents involved, their safety and their sanity; fear of the unknown – and there was _a lot_ of unknown out there; fear of going into a fight unprepared, the fear of injury or capture, the fear of failure. A hunter's list of fears was bottomless.

But this, this is a personal fear. This is fear for his brother, for a small piece of his already small family. And this is Dean handling his fear.

Although Jim would have preferred a less cut-off-from-the-rest-of-the-world way of dealing, it was Dean's way and he would respect it. The poor kid was so much like his daddy sometimes that it made Jim's heart ache.

So when a white-jacketed man in square spectacles crosses the waiting room's threshold and says, "Mr. Murphy? Mr. Bloom?", it doesn't surprise Jim when no expression crosses Dean's face. He simply stands, much quicker than Jim thought him able, given his injuries - it worries him that Dean's shoulder still hasn't been sewn up and he's started cradling his ribs.

Stubborn kid.

He'd allowed his shoulder to be treated and temporarily patched up back at the scene, but refused to be checked out after arriving and Jim knows better than to press the issue. He knows Dean'll keep until after they find out about Sam.

Dean's never been good about worrying about himself.

The doctor looks optimistic as Jim shakes his hand first, politely introducing himself, and he watches surreptitiously as the tension plays all over Dean's face. To an outsider it's invisible, and Dean offers nothing when the doctor takes his hand, but Jim sees the small spark behind those vacant green eyes, the nervous quirk of the corner of his lips.

The lecture starts out informative: Sam's right shoulder had been dislocated and he'd suffered a Grade III concussion. Two of his middle ribs had been cracked, a third broken, and their biggest concern had been the complication with the broken rib.

"Middle ribs are most likely to be broken by blunt trauma. My best guess is it was caused by a blow or a fall," the doctor prattles on and Dean nods, numbly. "When that happened, the broken end of the rib punctured the lung and caused it to collapse."

There's snitches of information after that, things like: "…collapsed lungs, while indeed quite serious, are actually quite common in tall, thin men…" and "…once it's treated, the organ will usually return to normal within 48 to 72 hours."

Overall, it's good news, but Jim isn't sure Dean hears anything past, "Samuel's being moved to Recovery" and "if all goes well, he'll heal in a few weeks."

And when the doctor leaves them with a smile, it's all Dean Winchester, poker face extraordinaire, can do to make it to the bathroom.

_

* * *

He's okay._ Sam's gonna be okay.

_If all goes well, he'll heal in a few weeks._

The doctor's gone, Dean doesn't see him leave, isn't really focusing on anything except _Sam's okay_ and _he'll heal in a few weeks_ and, suddenly, it all comes apart.

He's gagging as he stumbles into the first stall he sees, acid washing the back of his throat.

No slow unraveling for a Winchester. The breakdown hits hard and fast, and thank God Jim respects him enough to allow him this moment of weakness. Because until now he's been strong, until now he's kept himself hard. His mission, his purpose, was his glue, unsteady at best, but Winchesters could work with what they had and it was enough to hold him together and keep him going so that he could find his brother. So that he could bring him home. So that he could make him safe again.

Well Sam had been found, Sam was safe, and now Dean doesn't have to be strong anymore.

When he's finished, he bends over the sink.

_Sam's okay. He'll heal._

Even breathing is easier.

Dean splashes water on his face and neck, running a still-shaking hand through his hair. He washes out his mouth next, catches his reflection in the mirror. His face is flushed, his eyes bloodshot, evidence not of drinking but of the sleepless nights of the last few days. And when his legs no longer feel like the consistency of spaghetti, he opens the door to find Jim waiting for him.

The older man doesn't touch him, doesn't reach out a hand or grasp his shoulder. He knows outward signs of comfort are not what Dean wants, not what Dean needs. The comfort is solely in his old friend's eyes, and as he smiles paternally at Dean he says, "Now let's get that shoulder of yours checked out."

And Dean doesn't have it in him to argue.

_

* * *

*James 1:4_


	9. Answers

_A/N: Love and much awesomeness to Madebyme, skag trendy, MysteryMadchen, Ash8, jenilee, Amberdreams, bhoney, hpsupernaturalfan, cindy123, supernatfem76, and Leahelisabeth._

* * *

Shifting his weight and running a hand across the back of his neck, Dean leans against the doorframe. Tired.

The adrenaline of the last few weeks has long since worn off, leaving Dean an unutterably exhausted shell. The pain meds he's been given for his shoulder probably aren't helping either.

His head feels cloudy, thick, and if he doesn't watch it, he'll pass out standing up. And that's all he needs, some Good Samaritan nurse or doctor - or worse, Jim - finding him sprawled on the floor or asleep standing and making him leave because he "needs the rest."

Not that he doesn't need the rest. He can't remember the last time he's slept more than an hour at a time; he's dead on his feet, and there's a pronounced pain between his shoulder blades in the middle of his back that's biting into his spine.

Darn it. He'd thought getting up and walking around would rouse him up a bit. Loosen muscles sore and aching from remaining in the same position for too long. _Stupid hospital chairs._ He should probably head back; Sam's sleeping, will wake up any day now, and Dean wants to be there – awake – when he does.

Inevitably, though, his feet keep finding this room.

He has no idea how much time passes, hasn't really been keeping track, but even zoning out doesn't dull a lifetime of training, and Dean's awake and razor sharp when a hand touches his shoulder.

He relaxes. Jim.

"Thought I might find you here." The light tone of voice matches the grip and Dean knows it's not entirely about comfort. Leave it to Jim to notice that Dean's been jumping at every sound, foolishly checking every corner of every room, sizing up every person he comes in contact with. He can't help it that his guard's up. Sam will be lucky if Dean ever lets him leave his sight again.

Because this…this isn't happening again. Ever.

The touch disappears, replaces with a cynical, "You don't look so hot."

A smile hovers at the corners of Dean's mouth. "Yeah, well, I still get more action than you."

Jim moves so that he's leaning on the opposite side of the doorframe. "Yeah well, celibate, remember? What's your excuse?"

"Ouch." And the hovering turns to actual smiling before he notices Jim's hands aren't empty. "What'd you find out?"

Jim holds out the small stack of papers and then nods toward the unconscious figure resting in the hospital bed. "His name is Justin Wheeler. Eighteen years old."

Dean shakes his head. The picture on top is that of a much younger Justin. Bright-eyed. Smiling. Dorky haircut. "What is he? Fifteen in this picture?"

"Thereabouts."

Dean nods sadly. "Whatever. Too young to be caught up in all this."

"On that I can agree with you. I did some digging. His family was killed in a house fire that razed half the neighborhood before they were able to put it out. Police suspected arson, naturally, with a bit of homicide tacked on to the end, since the family's remains were found trapped in what they believed to be the pantry."

Dean shook his head as he perused the documents. Pictures had been taken of the residence. There really hadn't been much left to begin with. It had Vallis's name written all over it.

Jim continued. "Justin was sixteen at the time and had been a suspect. They had to track him down. He was across the state and staying with a friend. Kid gave a statement that he'd gotten into a fight with his father about a month before and had been kicked out ever since."

Dean huffs, glances back into the room. Well, that explained how Justin got away in the first place; Vallis had yet to miss a survivor, and when someone ticked him off, the whole family seemed to pay for it. Chances were, Vallis hadn't even known about the teenager when he went after the family. "Anything else? Kid say what the fight was about?"

"Yes, actually. He told the authorities that he'd separated from his family because of his father's 'questionable' activities."

"Makes sense then."

"It does?"

"Oh yeah. Standard mafia stuff. Don't you watch TV?"

"Not your kind of TV, I'm sure."

"Dad falls in with the bad crowd, then has a change of heart after his family finds out. There was probably some kind of big blowout where Justin just walked out."

It was easy to picture. It'd happened before. In a different family.

Dean _sooo_ wasn't going there.

"So you think this Vallis killed his family 'cause the guy wanted out?"

"There's no way of knowing for sure, but that'd be my guess. Else someone could'a hired the old bastard to put the family down. You find anything on the little girl?"

"This one?"

Jim hands him a picture. The big brown eyes and bright smile are even more adorable than he remembers. "Yeah. Yeah, that's her." Cleaner. Chubbier. "How'd she survive the original fire?"

"She didn't."

"Come again?"

"Her name was Cora Wheeler, Justin's little sister, and she died in the house fire with the rest of the family."

So the little girl was a...? He didn't…? "That's impossible," is all Dean manages to get out.

"It's not impossible, Dean. You know that."

"No, I mean, it's impossible because ghosts are always tied to something. There was nothing left of the house. What was there for her to be tied to?"

"Well, we have no idea what Justin took with him when he left and what he had on him when he got shot. It could have been an article of clothing, a toy, a bracelet – anything. For all we know, it could have been something as simple as being tied to her only remaining family. "

It was rare, but it happened.

Dean takes a moment to process the information. "Well," he finally says, "That would explain why we haven't seen her around. Maybe she wasn't here for the long haul."

"There's lore on guardian spirits - where we get the idea of guardian angels today. They're spirits who hang around after passing to make sure their loved ones are taken care of."

"Yeah, well, if the munchkin was pullin' the guardian scene then she didn't do a very good job making sure her brother didn't do anything stupid."

"I never said it made sense."

"She could have been pulling a _Crow_."

"Crow?"

Dean has enough sarcasm left in him to look exasperated. "Come on, Jim. _The Crow?_ Brandon Lee? Guy who gets murdered with his girl and comes back to kick ass? You know, put the wrong things right?"

Jim's only emotion to Dean's explanation is a single raised eyebrow.

"I swear, you've got no culture."

"Or maybe she only appeared in times of need."

That was even more rare, but still, it happened. Ghosts were mysterious like that. They played by a different set of rules than those of the living. Some were murderous, maniacal, and those were the ones that Dean had the most experience with. But there were also those who had the tendency to show up, like Jim said, in times of need. Rescuing hikers by leading them to safety, appearing to the weary or injured to keep them going until help arrived, manifesting to bring messages of comfort to their loved ones, to say that they are well and happy, and not to grieve for them.

Even death omens, which were usually viewed by believers as being bad, were ghosts trying to warn the living about a tragic event that, inevitably, couldn't be changed.

But Cora hadn't been a death omen. Sure, she'd appeared to her brother to comfort him after he'd been fatally wounded, but then she'd turned around and saved all their lives. She'd led Dean to Sam, and then disappeared to lead Jim to Justin and safety. And if Sam's delirium was anything to go by, he'd seen her too. It wouldn't surprise Dean if she'd appeared to his brother to comfort him, too.

"Dean?"

His name prompts him into realizing he's gone silent.

"Guess we'll never know, huh?" he finally says, then, glancing back at the unconscious figure, he adds, "I never got to thank her."

There's a glint in Jim's eye, one that's peaceful and knowing and makes Dean jealous just to see it. "I'm sure she knows, Dean," he says sagely. "I'm sure she knows."

* * *

"Sam?"

He blinks. Not really the best idea.

"Sam? Come on bro, talk to me."

There's white everywhere, bright and blinding and _burning_, and what dark, blurred shapes there are keep moving, dividing into twos, threes, melting into one and then moving again. It's enough to make Sam tighten his grip on the sides of the – _bed_?

He moves his lips, tries to call out for his brother, because Dean's always there and if anyone can make it right, can tell him what's going on, it's his brother. But then he remembers he's not supposed to have a brother, and he fades into, "No…no br'ther…Don' know…D'n…"

There's a hand on his forehead, a weight on his wrist.

"I'm right here Sam."

Dean? No…no, they couldn't have gotten Dean. No. Just, no.

Tears sting his eyes. Tears of rage, of aggravation, of powerlessness, and Sam flails. He's got to get up, got to get out of there, because Dean's not here and Dean's in danger and Dean needs him and he's got to warn his brother and…

"Take it easy." The hand on his forehead disappears, but not the grip on his wrist. If anything, it squeezes harder, and when Sam continues to fight, there's a restraining press on his collarbone.

"I need some help in here!" a slightly panicked voice calls. Then, "Take it easy, Sam. Just take it easy," and there's pain in the voice that even Sam can detect. "Don't worry. You're brother's…um…your brother's here. They didn't get him. He's safe."

Is it true? Can he really believe him? Because Sam wants to so badly. And the voice sounds so much like Dean's, but it can't be Dean's because…

…because…he can't remember why…

…why can't he remember?

There's a shuffling next to him. Then, "There now," a woman's voice whispers, "This'll help him rest."

And without his permission, Sam's limbs still, his breathing evens out, and he can feel the lethargy creeping through him, bringing with it blissful nothing.

This time, Sam welcomes it, lets it swallow him whole, because without his brother, he might as well be nothing.

* * *

The next time Sam wakes, it's to little pinpricks of sunshine assaulting his eyes. He blinks, annoyed at the offending rays. They're coming from the window by his bed. _Hospital bed?_

_Hospital? Then Dean…?_

Dean's pacing, his impatient stride taking him back and forth across the small room. And his brother's pacing is truly a sight to behold. Terrifying, if you don't know any better. He gives the impression of almost unbridled strength as he moves, lethal and sharp, and combined with an inherent grace that, to Sam, speaks volumes about his state of mind.

"Dean?" he says, and his voice is rough with disuse.

"Yeah Sam," Dean answers offhandedly.

The constant movement is making Sam dizzy. "Dude, would you stop pacing already?"

And Dean literally does a double take. It's comical, morbidly so, since Sam's waking up in a hospital bed to a brother who looks like he could unhinge at any moment. Besides, the look on Dean's face is far from amusing.

"Sam?" Dean says, halting in his step and immediately crossing the distance between them in a few short strides. _Short_, Sam thinks, because his brother's legs aren't that long, and _really, am I giggling? __What kind of painkillers am I on?_

_Whatever they are, they're good._

Dean's next to him, his hand on the plastic bar by Sam's head. Probably analyzing his inappropriate smirk. "Sam? You really with me this time, man?"

"That depends on what you mean by 'with it'."

Dean laughs at that, the sound strangled in his throat, and Sam _really _doesn't like the hysterical edge he hears tacked on to the end of it.

Now that he's looking, he doesn't like the yellowing bruises on Dean's face, or the arm that's banded to his chest. There's dark circles under his brother's eyes, too, and he looks pale…exhausted.

"Dean, what…?"

His brother detects the turn of the conversation and smiles wickedly. "Don't worry Sammy. Nurses _love_ the Devil-may-care look."

Sam ignores his attempt at banter and tries to push himself up, only to wince as his ribs make their presence known. Loud and clear.

Something in Dean thaws and he sits on the edge of the bed. The hand on Sam's knee immediately calms him and his brother fixes him with a rare, affectionate smile. "Easy does it," he orders. "You wanna know the truth? It was close."

And Dean's eyes tell Sam that it had been closer than he's going to admit.

"You got knocked in the head pretty good, on top of a couple of cracked and broken ribs. The broken one caused some trouble on the inside and if you keep movin' you'll mess up the doc's handy work. And I'm done with this bedside-vigil crap, you hear me?"

Yeah. Yeah, he hears it. And everything else Dean isn't saying.

Sam isn't fooled by his brother's hard-edged soldier routine, but he's willing to let it go. If that's his way of coping, Sam's okay with that for now.

"Love ya too, ya jerk," Sam mumbles, slipping back down into the covers. _You know, for a hospital bed, it isn't too bad…_

Dean sputters something, probably obscene, but Sam's already too tired to care. And as he's drifting off, a hand covers his forearm. "I know you've got questions, dude. I'll answer them. I promise. Just…wake up, okay?"

He wants to answer, thinks he does, but it doesn't matter, because the hand, his brother's hand stays right where it is and Sam can fall asleep knowing his brother's there. Safe.

* * *

It isn't a conversation he's looking forward to, but Sam has a right to know.

The phone isn't cold against Dean's ear anymore, and his hand doesn't shake as he dials the number he now knows by heart.

"_Sam awake?" _Jim asks right off.

"Yeah. Lucid and everything. Even called me a jerk."

Dean can hear the smile and the longsuffering sigh on the other end. _"That's my boy. I'll be on my way up there shortly. You hungry?"_

"No…but there is something I'd like you to do before you come. Can you stop at the library?"

* * *

Jim comes and goes while Sam sleeps, choosing to sit with Justin most of the time since Sam has Dean and the kid has nobody, but he brings the items Dean needs, which is a good thing since Sam is going to want answers when he can finally hold a conversation without drifting off in the middle of it.

And when Sam does wake, Dean's waiting for him with their father's journal on his knee.

Gingerly sitting up – it'll be a while before he stops favoring his ribs - Sam's immediately aware that Dean's got something on his mind. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes, looking entirely too young when he does it, then focuses on his brother, his voice unpretentious when he asks, "What'cha got dad's journal out for?"

Dean's only response is to toss it to him. It lands neatly in Sam's lap, and Sam glances at him, puzzled.

"Read it," Dean instructs.

For the first time in days - since the first day he woke up, actually - concern crosses Sam's features. "Why? Did you find a job? Are you leaving?"

Dean snorts. Seriously, only his brother would try to stop and analyze a situation when the answer was right in front of him. "No dumbass. Just read it."

"Why?"

Dean's sigh is impatient, because more than anything, he wants to get this over with. "Cause I know you've been waiting to find out what happened and this…this'll help explain things."

Sam takes a breath and studies him, and Dean almost buckles under the weight of his little brother's gaze. Eyes that young shouldn't look so aged, shouldn't carry so much weight. Shouldn't see into parts of him that no one else even knows exist.

It makes Dean shift, uncomfortable. "Just read it already."

Sam looks down, reads aloud from a newspaper clipping taped to an empty page: "Man pleads not guilty to murder-for-hire charge. New Orleans, LA - A Jefferson Parish man has pleaded not guilty in federal court to running a murder-for-hire business in the..._ Murder-for-hire_ business? Are you kidding me?"

Dean shakes his head as his brother all but chokes on the question. "Oh keep readin'. It gets better."

"Court records show that 35-year-old Stanley P. Vallis pleaded not guilty Wednesday to operating and managing an underground murder-for-hire ring. Numerous other charges, including several counts of arson, possessing and distributing illegal firearms, carrying an illegal firearm during and in relation to a crime of violence, and several counts of drug trafficking, were also included.

"Prosecutors say Vallis's downfall occurred when he attempted to hire someone last fall, but the would-be hit man was working with law enforcement and recorded the conversations.

"Vallis faces a possible life sentence for the horrific tally of 10 murders attributed to his 'business', which began with that of William Galleon, his wife Lucy and their three children, who were killed in their homes in October of 1994."

Sam glances up, and Dean can tell his brother's connecting the dots.

"Yep," Dean nods his affirmation back at him, and then swipes the Jell-O from Sam's food tray before continuing. "Just call me Mr. Would-Be Hit Man."

"So how did you…?"

Dean works at peeling back the foil on the Jell-O container; it keeps him from fidgeting. "It's a long story bro," he says, and scoops a blob of it out before shoveling it into his mouth. "After you left, Dad and I, well, we hunted on and off together for a while. Well, more like he'd give me jobs and then tell me to meet back up with him in a week. Ew, God, have you tasted this stuff?" He sits the container back down and eyes it like it might start moving on its own.

Which, knowing their luck, it just might.

"Anyway, there'd been this strange string of deaths in the New Orleans area. People dying in house fires, locked in their closets, but no sign of break in, struggle, anything. A house would burn, an entire family would be wiped out in one night.

"So dad and I look into it, thinking it's a fire imp or an ifrit or something. Sure as hell looked like it. You should'a seen the bodies, man. Their fingers were the worst, scoured to the bone trying to claw their way out. We were in town for almost a month trying to pin it down…"

Sam's nodding, quick on the uptake. After all, it isn't an uncommon occurrence, following a lead that ends up being totally un-supernatural related. Usually when that happened, though, they left the dirty work to the cops and moved on. "So the job was a bust."

"Not entirely. Cops were stumped but you know dad. The man's like a bloodhound. We tracked the murders to this lunatic badass and his merry little bad of thugs in a bar outside New Orleans. A bar we'd been going to almost every night, I might add. Turns out I played pool with the psycho every weekend, shared a freakin' beer with him…"

"Wait. Dean." Sam screws up his face. "So you _knew_ these guys…?"

"Dude, I'm getting there."

"Sorry."

"So," Dean pauses, grabs the dinner roll from Sam's hand, and brushes off his brother's rebuff by taking a bite, "me and dad had been going there just about every night and I'd gotten to know pretty much all the regulars within a week. V' was cool at first. Even hooked me up with this rockin' hot chick…"

Sam snorts. "Dean…"

He hands the roll back to Sam. "Sorry. Anyway, Debbie. She owned the bar that fronted for 'V. You met her at our hotel when you checked us in, before…" The memory of the ravaged, empty room makes Dean pause, his throat tight. "Well, you met her, and I guess she recognized me and tattled."

Sam nods, but respectfully remains quiet, even as Dean tells him just how close he unwittingly got. How he'd sat 'til the early hours of the morning in an empty bar just shooting the breeze, just he, Vallis, Tex, Shrivey, and sometimes Foz, feeling normal for once, like one of the guys; how Debs and Maggi had sweet-talked him into singing karaoke one night after a little too much tequila; how Shriv had made fun of his mid-western accent; how Foz had always been a little butt-kisser; and how Tex had never really liked him after he killed him three nights in a row at pool.

"A few weeks of this and 'V pulls me aside. I guess he saw something in me he liked and wanted me to sign up." Dean sighs, almost embarrassed by this revelation. "By then me 'n dad already figured it out and dad had skipped town. I was gonna go with him but…it just didn't feel right, ya know? So I put a call in to the cops – and sort of agreed to go undercover to help…"

"_Undercover?_"

"Well, maybe undercover's too strong of a word…"

"What happened to anonymous tips? Dean, the guy killed people…"

"Take it easy, Sam. Seriously dude, all I had to do was go back to 'V and say 'yes'. The cops did the rest."

Sam's giving him the look, the one that says _you're-not-telling-me-everything-you-jerk_. "Uh huh. Cops don't just let civvies walk into hostile situations like that."

"Well, I did tell them I had military training…" Dean hedges.

"You what?"

"It wasn't a lie. Not really. Either way, the cops really didn't have much of a choice. Apparently they'd been trying to pin V's gang down for while and he hadn't taken a liking to any of the guys they sent in. I had the door, I had the key, and I had the training. But dude," he stops, surprising Sam by leaning back in his chair and giving him his most puckish smile. "It was _awesome_. Just like the movies. They wired me up, gave me a bullet-proof vest, one of those little invisible ear-pieces…I felt like James Bond."

"Okay, so…then what?

"Then, the next day, V's racket gets raided and all his little playmates get arrested."

"And that's it? End of story?"

"Pretty much. I didn't stick around after that. Just moved on to the next job. I never thought…"

There isn't much to say after that.

The silence that follows is awkward and heavy, so when Sam simply says, "Yeah," it throws Dean off.

"Yeah?" Dean peers at him, incredulous. "Seriously, all you have to say is 'yeah'?"

Sam shrugs, trying hard - but not quite managing - to hide the wince when he does so. "What were you expecting me to say?"

"I don't know. Not 'yeah'."

"Why?"

"Because you almost got killed because of me, Sam."

"No, I'm alive because of you."

"Weren't you just listening?"

"Yeah, heard every word."

Dean clenches his jaw in frustration. "Then you know that all this was my fault."

* * *

Dean's blaming himself, the stupid jerk. Sam wants to feign weakness just to get him to come closer so he can knock him upside the head.

It's nice to fully understand now, to not just rely on the breadcrumbs thrown his way. But with Dean, it's one thing to understand, another entirely to try and convince him otherwise.

Because his brother isn't _at all_ hard headed.

Sam sighs, forcing his own frustration to subside, and stares down at his wrists. Raw wrists, chafed to muscle and itching with healing. Healing because of his brother.

He wants to yell, to pound it into Dean's head, but yelling or trying to beat it into him isn't going to help, however tempting it may be.

"Dean, man…" he says instead, letting his eyes linger on the bandages so that Dean's eyes will find the same place. "It wasn't your fault."

"Oh jeez, Sammy, don't start." Dean's reply is automatic, and more clipped then he probably means it to be. There's a humorless chuckle and his brother surges to his feet, moving to the open window and turning his back on him.

Sam isn't affected at all by this. It's the standard Dean-Winchester-defense-mechanism: Ignore it and it will just go away. But Sam's had 22 years of practice in all things Dean Winchester, and he maneuvers around it with caution. "Dean. I mean it."

Dean doesn't turn. "You know, I already got this lecture from Jim."

"And apparently you didn't listen then, either."

That does it. Dean spins, reeling on him. "I don't get you two. I mean, how's it not my fault? I heard you in there, Sam. I was there. You were protecting me. They wanted to know where I was and they were beating the crap out of you to get you to spill it."

Sam lifts his chin in an obvious display of little-brother defiance. "So what if I was? I wasn't about to give you up. You're my brother. Besides," he lowers his voice, allowing his face to soften. He knows meeting his brother's frustration with more frustration will only drive him over the edge. He's got to make him see, got to put it into words that Dean will identify with, and there's only one thing that Dean won't dispute. He meets his brother's eyes, knowing Dean won't look away again, and says, "I knew you'd come get me."

Dean blinks, looking as uncomfortable as Sam's sure he feels, but he doesn't argue, and that gives Sam confidence to continue.

"I'm not a kid anymore that needs looking after, man."

"No, you're a big pain-in-the-ass that needs looking after." It's said without mirth, but in the breezy fashion his brother often adopts when struggling to find a foothold.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence. But you're right. Maybe if I hadn't let my guard down then…"

Dean cuts him off with a sharp gesture. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, just stop right there. Don't you even try that crap with me."

"I'm serious, Dean. If I'd have been paying more attention those guys wouldn't have got the drop on me."

"They were _human_, Sam. In our line of work, we tend to forget that they're out there to get us, too."

"My point is…we're both to blame here. Not just you. Not just me. So what's it gonna to take to get you…?"

"All right, all right!" Dean says, throwing his hands up. After a moment he leans forward, elbows resting wearily on the rails of the bed, and scrubs a hand over her face. "I get what you're saying. I do. It's just…I can't…I need…"

This is Dean off balance, fumbling for how to put his thoughts into words. But Sam can sense the underlying message, even if Dean himself can't.

"For what it's worth, I forgive you, Dean."

And just like that, his brother deflates, those familiar and haunted green eyes filling with unspoken grief and love and intense gratitude before he lowers his head to sit and wait it out.

It's not very Winchester-like, and Sam's sure that both of them will pretend it never happened later, but the sudden need to see his brother's face is almost suffocating. Sam ducks down, touches his forehead to Dean's.

It isn't really a surprise when Dean leans against him. Neither is the calloused hand that slowly lifts to rest on the back of Sam's neck, locking them together.

No more words are said.

There's no need.


	10. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

_(A few weeks before Salvation)_

* * *

"_Why do you…they…you know…do it?…Why do what you do?"_

It isn't an uncommon question, but his usual answer doesn't apply. Now, deep in thought, Jim Murphy drums his fingers against his desk.

"Why do what we do?" he repeats, more to himself than his young caller.

He doesn't answer completely. He knows why _he's_ chosen this life, this duel-identity.

Jim's a Pastor by choice, and how completely he cares for his "flock". Cares for them, counsels them, shares their hopes and dreams, feels their joys when their babies are born, their sorrows when loved ones are lost. Besides the obvious, it's the greatest and most demanding choice he's ever made, and as stressful and mundane as it is at times, it's also rewarding beyond the treasures of the earth. He's a friend, a father, a comforter, a teacher...but amid those things, he's also called to be a warrior.

Whether it's a blessing or a curse, Jim knows about the things that go bump in the night, taking the lives and – _God forbid_ – the souls of the innocent. In that sense, who better to fight against the dark? It's his purpose, his calling, because of the many gifts he's been given in this life, the knowledge and the tools to see it done are among them.

It's almost ironic. Some Pastors spend their lives helping others face their "demons". The demons Jim faces, well, they just happen to be real.

Dangerously real.

So why does he do it?

Jim sighs into the phone. "I can't answer for Dean or Sam but…but I can tell you this... I do it because saving lives is my job. Whether it's here in the physical or for God's Kingdom, when I save a life, I understand two things that most people live their entire lives without ever figuring out: why I was put on this Earth and how I can make a difference."

The other end of the line is silent, his young companion mulling over his words. "But it isn't an easy life," Jim continues, "Most have a reason they do it. Unfortunately, it's usually a nasty one." And every man's reasons are different. Jim's well aware that his convictions are unlike that of his "peers". Still, this isn't the kind of life he would wish on anyone. So he chuckles softly into the receiver and doesn't hold back as he goes over the pros and the even longer list of cons.

He can tell his caller is disappointed, that he hasn't given him the answers he had been hoping for, but the decision he's facing is a big one – a life-changing one, and he's the only one who can make it. He doesn't need Jim's influence, and Jim can't speak for the Winchesters, though he knows them better than most.

Though he knows the answer.

Why do what they do?

It was the life they'd chosen, the life they lived so that no other family had to experience the pain that the Winchesters had suffered. It was as easy and as complicated as that.

Jim fingers the rosary on his desk absently and contemplates his answer. There had been a time when Jim hadn't understood at all why John had insisted on bringing his boys up in such a dangerous world, when he resented him for dropping his children off with him and then disappearing for weeks at a time. Dean and Sam were always a joy to have…well, except for the time Dean put a frog in Ms. Heidi's chili at Easter potluck…or the time Sam broke into his office playing cops-and-robbers…or the time they chased old Peter Calhoon's cat up a tree. Now _that_ one had been difficult to explain - the poor creature refused to come down for three days, and Jim strongly suspected that it'd had something to do with the handmade slingshot he'd found in Dean's room.

Jim wouldn't have wanted it any other way, though. Hunting never had been his first priority, but he'd had the knowledge and the tools to fend off anything that came looking for trouble. The boys had been safe with him.

And Heaven help him, but he'd enjoyed those times.

It was a small consolation. He'd cared for those boys in John's absence, and prayed fervently all the while that the idiot would come home from whatever crusade he'd embarked on.

But although he hadn't agreed, Jim had supported the widower, given his aide where he could. Hunting hadn't been just a job for John. He'd needed it to protect his family, to find his wife's killer, and…well…and to make peace with himself.

It was because of that Jim realized John had been, in his own way, doing the best he could. John had wanted his boys safe, shielded from the real terror he'd only recently learned existed. He'd survived his wife's death, trailing two innocent young boys behind him, so rather than digging himself a hole and hiding his family away in it, he had honed his own skills and, in turn, trained them to fend for themselves.

It was beyond rational thinking, but for a little while it worked. From afar, Dean and Sam were the perfect creations – adept fighters, more than capable of protecting themselves...intelligent, independent, street-smart. They were knowledgeable in all forms of weapons, both excellent marksmen, could read and speak Latin like a second language. They could con a conman, locks couldn't keep them out, and they could charm a Grandma out of her cookies…or a police officer from looking too closely.

Then Jim watched as John's small family fell apart. Though Dean had only been four at the time, he'd still had some memory of his mother, especially that terrible night. Sam, on the other hand, had never known the grief his father and his brother shared. Certainly he grieved alongside them for the mother and the life he'd been denied, but the anger in him had soon grown to resentment for his father's righteous drive for revenge. And the harder John held on to him, the harder Sam fought back.

John's calls became fewer and further between after Sam left for Stanford, the random updates that kept Jim in the know getting shorter and shorter until they disappeared altogether. It was like John had fallen off the face of the planet. The hunter's grapevine was always buzzing though, and Jim had heard through Caleb that Dean and Sam were back on the move, after a gruesome incident concerning Sam's college girlfriend. Those details weren't pretty and Jim knew that Sam's own personal suffering had upped a notch. Now, he had a reason to fight.

But still, no word from the Winchesters. Like father, like sons.

Then, "_Jim? It's Dean."_

Jim had immediately sat up straighter at the sound of the young man's voice. "Dean?"

_"I'm sorry. I just…I can't find dad and I didn't know who else to call…"_

His stomach had dropped, a chill creeping across the back of his neck and working it's way down his arms. Even now the memory of the phone call makes Jim's heart kick hard in his chest. Dean hadn't sounded like that since…well…Jim wasn't sure if he'd ever heard Dean sound as lost and as desperate as that.

There had been a lot to catch up on after that. Even more after Sam had been found.

Jim scrubs a hand over his face and reaches for the phone again. _Dean and Sam._ Until now, he hasn't thought about those two for a while - prayer aside, because Lord knows they need it - but he hasn't heard from them in some time and they'll definitely want to know about this.

After a few rings the voice on the end of the line answers, _"Ghostbusters."_

It's carefree, light, and it's been far too long since Jim's heard it sound like that. The unexpected boyishness of that rare tone has the corners of Jim's own mouth turning upward. "Hello Dean."

"_Jim!"_ Dean says happily, _"How the hell are ya?…Ouch!"_

Jim shakes his head as he hears another voice in the background, this one definitely Sam's, chastising his brother. "_Dean!"_

"_What?"_

"_Be respectful."_

"_I am."_ Speaking back into the phone now, Dean says, _"Uhh sorry…Good to hear from you, _Pastor _Jim,"_ …and darn if that boy didn't stress the 'Pastor' on that one… _"How's the 'hellfire and brimstone' going?…OUCH!"_

This time Jim can't help but chuckle. Dean's exclamation was no doubt sibling-inflicted, probably a poke to the ribs or a playful jab to the side. Maybe a slap to the back of the head. Lord, he loves these two.

"The 'hellfire and brimstone' is going well. You boys staying out of trouble?"

"_Not a chance,"_ Dean's voice is cheerful again. _"You hear from dad?"_

"As a matter of fact he called a few weeks ago. Said you guys finally met up in Chicago. "

_"Was that all?"_

No, it wasn't, but Jim had made a promise to his friend that he wouldn't break. "He said you tangled with daevas and actually survived. I'm impressed."

_"He tell you we were going our separate ways again for a while?"_

"Yes, he did. But that wasn't why I was calling."

"_Oh,"_ Dean sounds disappointed.

"I just got off the phone with Justin Wheeler. You remember Justin…"

"_Yeah, the kid from New Orleans. How's he doing?"_

_"Who?" _asks Sam's voice in the background.

Dean unhelpfully ignores him.

"He's doing well. Maybe getting a little restless; doctor's still have him on bed rest."

_"Yeah, well, taking two bullets will do that to a person."_

_"Dean?"_

_"Hang on," _he tells his brother. Then, _"So he just call to give you an update?"_

"No. No not really." Jim pauses. "He uh…he says he'll be starting therapy soon and when he's back on his feet he'd like to look into hunting."

_"Are you serious?"_

"Unfortunately. He wanted my opinion."

_"And you told him no, right?"_

"_Told who no?"_

"_Hang on, Sam."_

"Don't worry, I gave him enough to chew on that he won't be making any reckless decisions anytime soon."

"_He sees one ghost and boom, he's ready to hunt? What the hell's that kid thinking?"_

"Oh, I don't know," Jim says, letting sarcasm color his words. "Maybe it has something to do with losing your whole family and then suddenly realizing that every nightmare you've ever had is alive and out to get you. Add a young man on top of that who's made a lot of bad choices in his life and wants to make the world a better place. Sound familiar?"

_"Have I ever told you I love it when you get all preachy on me?"_

There really are times when Jim wants to cuss. "Point is," he continues, "I told him that hunting's not for everyone and that he'd be better off finding something useful to do and help in other ways."

Even now, Jim hopes the kid will take that route. There's just so much he can do to help besides hunting. There were hundreds out there, if you knew where to look. Doctors, lawyers, police, mechanics…people whom hunters had saved in the past and were looking to not only repay their debt, but aide in the extermination of all things evil.

"_Well, I hope he's smart,"_ Dean finally says, breaking into Jim's musings. _"You went through an awful lot of trouble to drag his ass outta that fire, I'd hate to see him get himself killed."_

They talk about a few other things, but the conversation is clipped and Sam, like a true little brother, is getting insistent, so Jim tells them to take care and bids them both goodbye.

Jim's about to hang up when he hears Dean voice on the other end, apparently oblivious to the fact that he hasn't hung up his phone.

_"Seriously?"_

"_Yeah. Jim told him to get in contact with Jefferson if he was still fired up about it." _There's a pause and a scuffle, like Dean shifting in his seat. Probably toward his brother._ "…you think the kid could do it?"_

"…_it's not that. It's just…if I'd have had the choice, this life wouldn't have been at the top of my list. Hell, it wouldn't have made the top hundred."_

"…_kid was on the streets for a long time, learned everything he knows the hard way…might be able to do it, if he sticks with Jefferson, trains with a seasoned hunter."_

"_Did Justin say anything else?"_

"_Just the mushy stuff – like he appreciated everything we did for him and said to tell us 'hi'."_

_"Oh, well, that's nice."_

_"Nice?"_

_"It's not nice?"_

_"Yeah, well, it is. But nice? What kind of sissy word is that?"_

_"Shut up, jerk."_

_"You love me and you know it, bitch."_

Jim's shaking his head as he hangs up the phone. Winchesters don't show emotion, but words of love are always in abundance.

_

* * *

_

_A/N: So there you have it friends, the answers we've been eluded to since chapter one. I didn't say anything at the beginning because I wanted to see how many readers could actually pick it up, and several caught on right away (snaps to you - you know who you are!) but I modeled this fic after the old noir films – you know, good cop/bad cop, the missing partner they're out to find, gangsters, moles, femme fatales and all that jazz *grins*. So yeah, if you go back and read it again, picture it in black and white. It changes your perspective._

_Thank you all so much for following my little rabbit trails! Love to you all and God Bless!_


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